


Cataclasm

by dendral



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, a frankly absurd amount of one-time OCs, shhhh new tags means hints for act 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2018-10-27 06:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10803201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dendral/pseuds/dendral
Summary: cataclasm[kat-uh-klaz-uh m]noun1. a breaking asunder; a violent disruptionFor reasons unknown to all but himself, Obi-Wan Kenobi has left the Jedi Order in the midst of the Clone Wars, taking with him a single clone. Anakin Skywalker has been unofficially tasked by the Order to find Obi-Wan and bring him home.Unfortunately for Anakin, it seems his former master is always ten steps ahead of him.Preparing the stage for Act 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This mess was inspired by the album Cataclasm by Crywolf. I highly recommend checking it out.
> 
> Massive shout out to [anecdotalist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anecdotalist/pseuds/anecdotalist) and [stonefreeak](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stonefreeak/pseuds/stonefreeak) for beta reading this entire thing, and for continuing to beta the next two acts. Go read their stuff when you get the chance.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at dendral.tumblr.com. I have art stuff there.
> 
> Update schedule will be every two weeks until the conclusion of Act 1. After that, I'll be working on Act 2, but not sure how long that will take. May the Fourth be with you!


	2. Runaway

Waxer stood in front of the door to General Kenobi’s quarters.

He didn’t know why he’d been summoned, but he had been—and it’d been so important that no one, not even Commander Cody, was to know about it. The message he’d received had been explicit, sent encrypted through a datapad. Though the actual phrasing of the message had been much more elegant than it had any right to be, it had boiled down to a basic request: come alone and tell no one of the meeting.

So there he was, at 2100 standard hours, hovering in the hallway in front of the door to Kenobi’s quarters. All the other clones, save for those on shift, would be asleep as the ship made its way back to Coruscant. He was looking forward to a little bit of downtime before inevitably shipping out again. These days, it seemed like Kenobi never had a break, nor did his men. The exhaustion was ship-wide. If it weren’t for Commander Cody being the one to file the paperwork and figure out the numbers for deploying troopers, he was certain General Kenobi would’ve gone insane, if he wasn’t already.

Waxer took his helmet off and held it under one arm, then raised a hand to knock on the door. He paused, a wave of trepidation washing over him. General Kenobi’s message had been simple enough and betrayed no motives that Waxer could discern, but what reason was there to even send it? A secret mission? But why Waxer instead of someone else, and why now, when Waxer was about to have some downtime? Was Waxer’s performance an issue, and Kenobi was planning to give him a dressing down in person instead of letting someone under his command take care of it? Gods, of all the things that could happen, that had to be Waxer’s worst nightmare. Maybe Kenobi would relieve him of duty, tell him that once they reached Coruscant that Waxer was to leave and never come back, and had decided to deliver the news himself so that Waxer knew it was serious. What if he was going to be court martialed? Waxer couldn’t recall anything he’d done that would warrant a court martial, but maybe he’d done something wrong and hadn’t realized it. Kenobi was a fair man, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t do that without reason. Or maybe the general was promoting him, but wouldn’t he have done so with other officers present? Or perhaps it was a private proposition—Waxer almost scoffed at that thought. As if that kind of thing would _ever_ cross Kenobi’s mind. He was pretty sure the general was far too much of a Jedi for it, and even if he wasn’t, Kenobi would never allow such a thing to happen with the power dynamics present in their working relationship.

After running over every scenario he could think of in his head, Waxer steeled himself for what he figured was inevitably bad news and knocked on the door. A few tense moments later, it slid open with a whoosh. “Come in,” General Kenobi’s voice floated through the doorway. Waxer stepped forward and the door shut behind him, a sharp click reverberating through the low thrum of the _Negotiator_ ’s engines.

“Sir,” Waxer greeted, saluting. Kenobi didn’t respond.

The room was dark. He couldn’t help but wonder why. Surely the general wasn’t planning to keep the lights off for the meeting, was he?

Then again, he’d always had a flair for dramatics, even if he claimed otherwise. A dark room would, without a doubt, set the mood for a meeting so important no one else could know of it. Waxer could see where Skywalker got it from.

General Kenobi stood in front of his room’s viewport with his hands clasped behind his back, the light from the distant stars cutting a bright outline around his figure against the black of space, casting elongated shadows across the floor. His room was void of belongings save for a meditation pillow a few steps behind where the general stood. The bed was made and, except for his presence in the room, there was no hint that a being actually inhabited the space. Like all quarters on the ship, Kenobi’s room was cramped, but it had space compared to the dorms Waxer shared with his brothers, and the lack of personalization made it feel unbearably empty and lonely.

Waxer supposed that was Kenobi for you, though—immaculate and impersonal regarding himself, while simultaneously warm and approachable with individuals he interacted with, despite the arm’s length he held everyone at.

Minutes passed and the Jedi seemed to have forgotten about Waxer’s presence, adjusting his position to cross an arm over his chest and stroke his beard with the other hand. He said nothing, did nothing to acknowledge that he was in the room, didn’t even turn to look at Waxer—he continued to gaze out into deep space, deep in thought. Something about Kenobi seemed off. Wrong, somehow. Waxer knew he wasn’t Force sensitive, and what he knew about the Force was gathered from watching the general fight and listening to him talk about it, but he could feel that something was wrong regardless. He could cross the empty space of the room to Kenobi within a second and stand next to him, but Kenobi seemed so distant, so far away, as though he was in a different universe than the one he bodily inhabited. Waxer shifted his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet and restrained himself from chewing on his lower lip. He changed his grip on his helmet and let it settle more comfortably in his hold. What he wouldn’t give to have Boil at his side right now.

“Lieutenant,” Kenobi said, and Waxer started.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you trust me?” he asked and turned, leveling his gaze on Waxer. Waxer raised a brow. Kenobi had his hands folded behind him again and he was turned so his left side was towards the viewport; the starlight glowed on his pale skin and Waxer could see deep lines of exhaustion etching across his face. Weariness seemed to drape itself over his shoulders like his favorite cloak.

Despite the dark bruises under Kenobi’s eyes, there was still the familiar twinkle in them.

“You’re my general, sir,” Waxer replied, uneasy. He clenched and unclenched his fists, years of training the only thing keeping him from fidgeting further.

“That’s not an answer,” General Kenobi said, a ghost of a smile on his lips, eyes darting to Waxer’s fists. Of course he’d notice. The Jedi noticed everything. “You have my permission to speak freely.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Waxer began, “I don’t know why you need to ask. Of course I trust you.”

“And with what do you trust me?” Kenobi asked, turning to face Waxer fully now.

“My life,” Waxer responded without thinking.

“So you trust me to make the right choices, even in the most dire of situations, even when there are no right choices to be made?”

Waxer hesitated this time. Sometimes the general’s decisions were—well, _insane_ , even by Jedi standards. Many times Waxer had been uncertain of whether or not some of Kenobi’s ideas were good ones. It wasn’t that they didn’t _work_ —it was that they always managed to put Kenobi into the path of blaster rifles or an enemy lightsaber. Kenobi considered himself expendable, even if he wasn’t, even when he knew, objectively, that he could do more good for the galaxy by staying alive.

But Waxer knew his general’s heart—knew it was good—and he knew Kenobi never made any decision lightly, not in this war.

“Yes, I do,” Waxer replied. “Sometimes I disagree with your choices. But I trust your judgement.”

Kenobi nodded, seemingly satisfied with Waxer’s answer. He wandered to the middle of the room and sat cross-legged on the floor, then gestured to the space in front of him. Waxer cocked his head and gingerly set himself down across from Kenobi, placing his helmet to his side. Kenobi waved his hand and the lights flickered on. Waxer was startled—he’d never seen Kenobi use the Force so flippantly before. Kenobi then placed his elbows on his knees and pressed his fingertips together. “I have a mission for you,” he said.

Finally. This was ground Waxer was familiar with. “Lay it on me, sir,” Waxer said, sitting up straighter.

Kenobi shook his head. “Not yet. First, I need you to listen to me. You have every right to decline this mission. This is by _no means_ an order. If you feel that the risk is too great, the stakes too high, do not hesitate to say no. This is a request—not from a general to a soldier, but from one man to another. Do you understand?”

Waxer narrowed his eyes. He had the feeling that this wasn’t a usual event—underneath the calm mask and the cool, collected voice, Waxer could see that Kenobi was distressed about something. His eyes were tight at the corners and his lips were pressed into a thin line, and he looked tired, like he hadn’t slept in a while. “I understand,” he said, knowing already that he wouldn’t say no, no matter what was asked of him.

Kenobi sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He closed his eyes, took a breath. “Good,” he said. “The mission is—not official. It’s off the grid completely, in fact, and unsanctioned. The Senate doesn’t know. Not even the Jedi Council knows of it.”

“Not even—” Waxer exclaimed. “But sir, aren’t they the ones that hand out the crazy undercover missions you usually go on?”

“Indeed they are,” Kenobi chuckled, stroking his beard. “But they’re not involved this time. Something pressing has come up, and I can feel that I am needed elsewhere. No one but me knows of this. It will be… dangerous, to say the least.”

“You’re leaving command?” Waxer asked, feeling panic rise in his throat. If Kenobi wasn’t leading them, who the hell would? Who would take care of him and his brothers? As far as the Jedi went, Kenobi was one of the best strategists and most conscientious commanders, and by far the most capable leader (to the point that the clones had begun spreading rumors that this wasn’t their general’s first time leading a war); he took the time to get to know the brothers he worked most often with and formulated tactics to preserve the most lives possible. Waxer had seen him standing alone on the bridge, at times, running over the last campaign they embarked on, reviewing the casualty list over and over again as though he could change it if he stared at it long enough, as though it would magically shrink.

Someone else could be a better general, that was true—but it was far more likely that they’d be _worse_.

“Yes, though only temporarily, I hope,” he responded, distant. Waxer opened his mouth to speak, but Kenobi continued talking. “I’m afraid I can’t give you the exact reason why, so I’ll need you to invest some of the trust you say you have in me. And in turn, I will grant you the same trust. I would like for you to join me on this mission.”

Losing control over his expression, Waxer made a face, scrunching up his nose and narrowing his eyes in confusion. “Me? Why me?”

“Because I trust you, Waxer, and you have shown tenacity, resourcefulness, reliability, and most importantly, compassion,” Kenobi stated, as though it was the simplest thing in the world, as though there had been no question about who to ask.

“But what about General Skywalker?” And what about him indeed—Skywalker and Kenobi were the Team, after all. Splitting them up could cost the Republic dearly, and he knew from observation and gossip among his brothers that Skywalker threw a fit whenever he felt Kenobi was leaving him in the dark. He’d been fortunate enough to never witness the other Jedi’s stormy moods—but the 501st had plenty of stories to tell of them.

This was much more than leaving Skywalker in the dark, though, and he had the feeling that Kenobi hadn’t made that decision lightly either.

Kenobi sighed, and from his expression, Waxer could tell he’d expected that question. “If others could know as well, then believe me, Anakin would be high on the list of people I’d be telling about this—but as it stands, the only beings in the universe that know of this plan are you and me. Whether you accept or decline my request, we will continue to be the only two that know, and it will go forward regardless of your response.”

It hit Waxer, then, how must trust Kenobi was really placing in him. He’d divulged this information to him, knowing that if Waxer decided to, he could report it to someone—but instead Kenobi chose to believe he wouldn’t, even if he refused to go with him.

It was an odd feeling, to be respected that much.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” Waxer said. “How long have you been planning on doing this?”

Kenobi shrugged. “Weeks, now. Everything is in place for my departure. All that remains is the final step.”

Kriff, the general was already prepared to go. Of course he was. Waxer shouldn’t have expected anything different. “And what will this mission entail?” Waxer asked, leaning forward.

“Whatever the Force wills,” he replied. “It won’t be easy—the likelihood of dying will be high, and you will be considered a deserter until our return, when I can vouch for you. We’ll be watching each other’s backs the whole time, and neither the Republic nor the Jedi will be able to help us when we get into trouble. We’ll have no one to fall back on.” He paused. “I have… half of a plan,” he admitted quietly, sounding almost ashamed, like he was disappointed in himself. “There are things I need to find that may yield vital information. But aside from that? I’m honestly... not quite sure what it is I need to do. I just know the Force has shown me that I am needed elsewhere. I have to go, or all will be lost.”

Waxer hadn’t been expecting that. Kenobi always had a plan of action, or some idea of what he was doing; as much as the man would say to have trust in the Force, it was rare for him to not have contingencies in case things went wrong.

But he could hear the finality in his tone, see the determined spark in his eyes. He knew then that whatever Kenobi was going to do, it would be for the good of others.

He scrutinized his general, looking for anything to make him doubt his own resolve to say yes—looking for a reason to back down. But he found none, and he hadn’t expected to find anything in the first place. Kenobi seemed more like himself; not like before, when the feeling of wrongness had pervaded the air. This was the general he knew: an unwavering devotion to helping others, a determination that would not be swayed.

Waxer rubbed a gloved hand over his face. He thought of Boil, of the 212th, of his other brothers spread all across the galaxy. Fighting, dying in the name of the Republic, in the name of people who didn’t care about them.

As if sensing Waxer’s hesitation, Kenobi said, “We’ll be bringing hope to those that have been without it for too long, and perhaps a quicker end to the war.”

An end to the war. That sounded nice. Waxer wasn’t sure what he’d do after the war—all he knew was fighting, surviving; he’d been born and raised to do just that. But he was a man, too, and he’d wondered frequently after meeting Numa what it would be like to have a family, a child of his own.

“So what do you say?” Kenobi asked, his eyes on Waxer, patient bright blue meeting brown. “Will you accompany me on what may very well be a suicide mission?”

Waxer smiled. “Of course, sir. I can’t let you go by yourself. Who will keep an eye on you for Commander Cody otherwise?”

Kenobi laughed. “Cody is not going to be terribly happy about this.”

“Yeah, well, neither will General Skywalker or Commander Tano, I bet,” Waxer grinned.

A soft, sad smile appeared on Kenobi’s face. “No, I suppose not.” He stood, smoothing down his robes. “I’ll contact you a few days after we’ve returned to Coruscant. I have some things to attend to, but once those are squared away, we’ll have to go as soon as possible.”

Waxer stood as well, scooping his helmet off the floor. “Yes, sir.” He saluted. “Thank you for trusting me, sir.”

Kenobi smiled, a genuine smile this time, and placed a hand on Waxer’s shoulder. “No. Thank _you_ for saying yes. This means more to me than you realize.” He walked Waxer to the door. “I understand that you and Boil are close. Usually, I wouldn’t recommend acting out of the ordinary—but I urge you not to leave without saying goodbye. I fear it would break him if you did.”

Waxer returned the smile. “I appreciate it, general.”

* * *

A few days into shore leave, a message pinged on Waxer’s comm, telling him to meet Kenobi at Coruscant’s main spaceport. Kenobi had told him to leave his armor behind, and he felt naked without it. But he was to bring some belongings, and if possible, a weapon. So he packed his meager belongings, shoved a blaster into his bag, and hoped no one would notice he’d just stolen military property—at least, not until he was long gone. Dressed in civilian clothes and hefting his satchel over his shoulder, he took off without a word to his brothers.

He felt miserable not saying anything to them. It wasn’t right.

But this—this was important. His general needed him. Like Hell he’d let him down now.

Besides, he’d said goodbye to Boil. While guilt gnawed at him for having to lie about _why_ he was leaving, he’d at least done that, and he’d gotten a hug out of it.

Gods, he was going to miss Boil.

At the spaceport, Waxer scanned the crowds, looking for the recognizable bearded face. He almost passed the man too, halting in his tracks only when Kenobi’s voice, with its gentle, teasing lilt, said, “Do I really look that different?”

Waxer turned to find a beardless Kenobi grinning at him.

“What,” Waxer said.

Kenobi’s brows rose. _That_ was a familiar expression. He rubbed at his bare chin. “Surely it can’t have altered my appearance that much,” he said.

And it really wasn’t that severe a change. Kenobi looked much younger, certainly, but his hair was the same, and he still held himself the same way. He wore the same tunics he always did, and he had his cloak, with the addition of a worn-looking satchel. If someone was searching hard enough, they’d recognize him instantly as General Kenobi, Council member of the Jedi Order—but without the beard, he became another face in the crowd, easy for one’s eyes to slide off of without a second thought.

Or maybe it was one of Kenobi’s Force tricks. Waxer didn’t really know.

“It’s not that, sir,” Waxer replied, scratching the back of his head. “It’s just. Strange? I’ve only ever seen you with a beard.”

Kenobi chuckled. “I prefer having the beard. But combine my face in its current state with civilian clothes, and no one will look at me twice. We’ll see about getting masks once we’ve left the planet.” He started walking, and Waxer followed.

Then he noticed something. Or rather, he noticed something missing, not hanging from Kenobi’s belt where it usually resided. “Where’s your lightsaber, sir?”

“Oh, I had to turn that in when I left the Order,” Kenobi replied.

“Do you have another weapon?”

Kenobi glanced at Waxer. “No.”

“You’re going to get a blaster later, _right_?”

“Oh, I have a feeling that won’t be necessary,” Kenobi said brightly. Waxer gritted his teeth and felt a sudden rush of empathy for Cody. “I’ve arranged a transport to take us to Hosnian Prime,” Kenobi continued, either blind to Waxer’s irritation or willfully ignoring it. “From there, we’ll be taking various transports until we reach Socorro. Hopping around should keep everyone off our trail, at least for a short while.”

“Socorro? Isn’t that planet overrun with smugglers?”

“Yes,” Kenobi replied. “It’s the perfect place to get an unregistered ship, as much as I loathe dealing with thieves and swindlers.”

They arrived at the shuttle and Kenobi showed the attendant their tickets. He gestured for them to board and they took seats near the back, where they would go unnoticed. Waxer shoved his bag under the chair in front of him, and Kenobi did the same with his satchel, though gentler.

“And how do you plan on going about getting a ship from smugglers?” he asked in a low, skeptical voice as he settled into his seat. Going to Socorro was begging for trouble to find them, as far as he was concerned, and Kenobi was a magnet for it on a _good_ day. Kenobi didn’t have a weapon to defend himself with anymore, and using the Force would announce his presence on the planet instantly.

Not to mention they were broke.

“Money talks, no matter where you are,” Kenobi said. “While the Jedi have no use for money, I found it prudent to keep an account with funds just in case something ever cropped up.”

Waxer shook his head and threw his arms up. “Of course you’d have a private account. Why did I ever think otherwise? You’ve been full of surprises these past few days, general.”

Kenobi shot him a toothy smile. “Anything to keep you on your toes.”


	3. Square One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my two beta readers. I <3 you.
> 
> And a very big thanks to everyone who commented, left Kudos, or bookmarked this. I really appreciate the support!

Anakin strode down the hall to Master Yoda’s chambers, a frown etched onto his face.

He’d been called in for a meeting and told that only Master Yoda and Master Windu would be in attendance. It wasn’t a formal meeting, or a briefing; according to Master Yoda, it was something Anakin would want to know.

Surely if Anakin was to know of it, then Obi-Wan would be there, and frankly, Anakin didn’t see why they’d called him in the first place. If they had an off-the-record mission for him, then there was a slim chance they _wouldn't_ be assigning Obi-Wan as well, especially since, as far as Anakin knew, he was still on Coruscant on much-needed shore leave (which essentially meant in-person Council meetings and dealing with the Senate, and Anakin knew Obi-Wan much preferred being on assignment to _that_ ). Having Anakin there would be mostly pointless, since Obi-Wan would brief him on everything he needed to know while Anakin was busy not really listening to anything the green troll said, and Anakin could be spending his time elsewhere (namely, with Padmé). But they hadn’t said anything about Obi-Wan or a mission.

Just that it was important, and that Anakin should be there.

He knocked on the door when he arrived. The door slid open to reveal Yoda. “Come in, young Skywalker. Much to discuss, we have.” Then he turned and settled down on his meditation mat. Master Windu was sitting as well, a pensive look on his face.

“Skywalker,” he said by way of greeting.

“Master Windu,” Anakin said, inclining his head. He sat across from both of them. “What did you need me for, Masters?”

“Know where Obi-Wan is, do you?” Yoda asked, folding his hands over the top of his gimer stick.

“No, but I figured he’d be part of this meeting too,” Anakin said and shrugged his shoulders. So he’d been right—Obi-Wan was going to be assigned as well. “Maybe he’s just running late?” he proposed, though Obi-Wan would be caught dead before he was willfully late to a meeting like this. Whatever was keeping his former master, it must’ve been important.

Yoda shook his head and Windu sighed.

“Kenobi’s not part of this meeting,” Windu said. “We were hoping you knew where he was, though, so that we may talk to him.”

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday,” Anakin said, anxiety curling in his gut. “Is something wrong? Is Obi-Wan okay?” They were on leave, for Force’s sake. Surely his former master couldn’t have found trouble.

Yoda let out a breath and he seemed a century older than he was. Windu looked tired, and he rubbed his forehead with his hand. “Left the Order, young Obi-Wan has,” Yoda said, his ears drooping.

Anakin gaped. “Excuse me?”

Had he heard them right? There was no way—that didn’t sound... That didn’t sound like Obi-Wan. They had to be testing him—testing his faith in Obi-Wan. The Order was _everything_ to his friend; he’d never leave, not willingly. He’d sacrificed, in Anakin’s opinion, far too much to just abandon it. Anger bubbled up in Anakin’s throat, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. The Council had to have done something to Obi-Wan, forced him away.

He wouldn’t just _leave_. And he wouldn’t leave without telling Anakin.

“It’s not a test, Skywalker,” Windu said, exhaustion leaking into his voice. He unhooked a lightsaber from his belt; it was only then that Anakin realized the man had had two on there.

Windu handed Anakin the lightsaber.

It was Obi-Wan’s. The weight was familiar in his hands; he’d fought with it many times, when they’d somehow ended up switching ‘sabers mid-battle. He’d based his own design off Obi-Wan’s. He knew the blade almost as well as his own.

The hilt was cold, and what should’ve felt familiar against his skin felt alien, wrong.

Abandoned. The lightsaber had been abandoned, and Anakin could sense it in the metal, in the delicate keening of the crystal inside.

But that couldn’t be right—

“No,” Anakin said. Windu raised his brows. “No way. You must’ve done something. What are you trying to pull? I’m not gonna believe that. I understand if you’ve given him some sort of cover that he needs to protect by pretending to leave, but you’re not tricking me. I know my old master, and you’ve known him since he was a child. You, of all people, should _know_ he’d never just— _leave_ the Order. No one would ever believe that. He puts his duty to the Order above everything else. Tell me the truth.”

“Wish it were false, I do,” Yoda said, resigned, and Anakin’s heart dropped like a stone while his mind buzzed, trying to find any reason why Council members would keep _lying_ to him like that. “Understand why he left, the Council does not.”

“We thought he might’ve told you,” Windu admitted. “That’s why we called you here. To find out why.”

“I still don’t believe you,” Anakin said, struggling to keep from raising his voice.

“Search your feelings, Skywalker,” Windu said. “It’s the truth.”

Through the storm in his head, he took a breath and searched their intentions.

They weren’t lying.

Force, they weren’t _lying_.

He stood and ran out of the room, going as fast as his legs would carry him. He barely noticed other Jedi dodging out of his way.

Before he knew it, he was standing in front of Obi-Wan’s quarters, shoulders heaving as he gasped for air, his heart trying to beat out of his chest. He placed his palm on the sensor outside, still registered to his identity despite not living with Obi-Wan since he was knighted, and the door slid open, granting Anakin entrance.

He stepped inside to see nothing had been changed. Everything was in place as it should be: tidy, organized, impersonal, but lived in. No one had searched Obi-Wan’s quarters yet. Which meant his bedroom should be untouched.

Anakin made a beeline to his former master’s bedroom, but he paused the moment he placed his hand on the door handle. He was afraid, suddenly, of what he would find upon opening the door.

He sucked in a breath, held it, and entered.

The curtains were drawn shut. The closet still had some of Obi-Wan’s robes in it. The desk was clean, with a small number of datapads sitting on it in a stack, likely reports that Obi-Wan had been going through while on leave. Datapads he’d checked out from the Archives still stood in a neat row on a shelf above it, which Anakin knew were loaded with holonovels and academic research papers from institutions around the galaxy.

On Obi-Wan’s desk was a holocron. Anakin had seen them before—polygons with crystalline facets and clear frames that allowed one to see the mechanisms inside, opened only by manipulating the light side of the Force. The Archives were full of them, some kept away in the Vault, holding knowledge too sensitive for just anyone to know. The one on Obi-Wan’s desk was a cube, gold-colored plates at each corner that spread down towards the center of each square face like the edges of a flame. Underneath the holocron cube was a piece of flimsi, Anakin’s name written on it in stylized print that Anakin had painstakingly spent years mimicking as a Padawan.

He realized he was still holding Obi-Wan’s lightsaber and clipped it to his belt. With a shaking hand, Anakin picked up the holocron that Obi-Wan had left for him. He could open it now, see what was inside, what Obi-Wan had left for him. It was a message of some sort, he knew—one that held some sort of important information, or an explanation.

He should take it to the Council. Let them open it and see it’s contents—

No. Obi-Wan had left it for _him_. Had addressed it to him using _his_ name. It was meant for his eyes, no one else’s.

His grip tightened on the holocron and he swiped the piece of flimsi off the desk. He couldn’t leave these things in Obi-Wan’s quarters to get later. The Council would have _definitely_ gone through them by then, and if they saw Anakin’s name written on flimsi like that, then they’d know Anakin had been left something, taken it, and not said anything. They would want him to fork over whatever Obi-Wan left for him.

It was not theirs to take. It was for _him_.

He went to his own quarters and hid it in his bedroom.

He remembered, then, how he’d rudely ran out on Masters Yoda and Windu, and cursed himself. He’d lost his control. That wouldn’t reflect well on him.

Unwillingly, he went back. Master Yoda and Master Windu were waiting for him when he returned, Windu looking annoyed, Yoda seeming unmoved.

Anakin plopped himself back down in his vacated spot. “I apologize for my hasty departure, Masters,” Anakin said, bowing his head, feeling ashamed. Obi-Wan would’ve been disappointed in his lack of restraint. “I displayed poor control over myself. I had to… I had to check.”

“I’m guessing you found nothing in his quarters then,” Windu said.

A stab of panic went through him as he thought of the holocron, now hidden under his pillow, but he pushed the thought away and shook his head. “Nothing. Just some reports on his desk. I think he finished them before he left.”

Yoda sighed, a sad sound that Anakin hadn’t heard from him before.

“Tell me what happened,” Anakin demanded, leaning forward, his hands’ grips tightening on his knees. “Explain everything.”

“Sadly, there’s not much to tell,” Windu said with a shrug. “He asked for the Council to be gathered yesterday morning and when we did, he announced he was leaving the Order. He wouldn’t hear any arguments, nor listen to reason, and he didn’t tell us why he had come to that decision. He kept saying he had to go. Nothing we said changed his mind. He apologized for leaving in the midst of a war, said he’d taken lengths to ensure his successor would be able to take up his responsibilities, then he handed over his lightsaber and left.”

“See warning signs of this, did you, young Skywalker, when with Obi-Wan, you were?” Yoda asked.

“No. He wasn’t acting out of the ordinary last night, and all my past conversations with him didn’t hint towards anything,” Anakin replied. “Everything was fine on the last mission, too.”

“Some of the Council believe that Obi-Wan might fall,” Windu said, and Anakin tensed.

Obi-Wan going to the dark side? That was unthinkable. “He would never,” Anakin insisted.

“I’m not saying the two of us agree with that assessment,” Windu replied, holding his hand up in a pacifying gesture. “What I’m saying is, the Council is worried. With the number of Jedi in recent times that _have_  fallen, the Council is on edge, especially since Obi-Wan held a seat _on_ the Council. If he does indeed side with the Separatists, the war will be lost.”

“He won’t,” Anakin said. “He wouldn’t betray us like that.”

But he’d left the Order, despite everything—despite the fact that he’d dedicated his life to serving it, despite the fact that he had a duty to his men, to the Republic—he’d left, and he hadn’t even said goodbye.

It hurt. Did Obi-Wan not care about him at all?

He thought back to the day before. They’d had dinner together with Ahsoka at Dex’s, a rare treat that Obi-Wan had proposed. It’d been so long since they had last been on Coruscant, and they hadn’t known when they would get to stay for any length of time in the future—so they’d gone to Dex’s and spent a pleasant evening in each other’s company, enjoying the food, bickering, and discussing the war and Jedi philosophy and mechanics.

At the end of the evening, Obi-Wan hadn’t walked back to the Temple with them, claiming he had important business to attend to. He’d wished Ahsoka well, said he was proud of her, and a grin had lit up her face, bright as a star. Then he’d turned to Anakin. Ahsoka had taken a step back, seeming to sense a private exchange was incoming. Obi-Wan had placed both hands on Anakin’s shoulders—more contact than was usual for him in such a public place—and said, “You are strong and wise, Anakin, and I am very proud of you.”

He had paused, then. Anakin had blinked owlishly at him. “What’s the occasion, huh? Or do you just want something from me?” he’d teased, not knowing what to say.

Obi-Wan had smoothed down the front of Anakin’s tunics, letting his hands linger before drawing them away and hiding them in the sleeves of his cloak. Bright blue eyes had searched Anakin’s face, though what they had been looking for, Anakin hadn’t been sure. “I have trained you since you were a small boy. I have taught you everything I know. And you have become a far greater Jedi than I could ever hope to be, and you have saved my life more times than I can remember.” A smile had graced his features, then—an easygoing one that hadn’t quite reached his eyes.

“Goodbye, old friend,” he had said. “May the Force be with you.”

Anakin hadn’t thought anything of it when he replied, “Thank you, Master. I’ll see you later.”

But that—

That _had_  been goodbye.

It had been final, and Anakin had been too stupid to take notice.

When they’d had dinner together, Obi-Wan had already left the Order, and he hadn’t even _known_ about it.

The realization stung.

Silence had fallen over the group. “He wouldn’t do that,” Anakin said weakly, feeling as though Yoda and Windu weren’t convinced, and that the reason they now doubted was because of his insistence. “Not to us. Not to _me_.”

Yoda’s ears twitched, but he said nothing.

“Like I said before, _we_ don’t believe he’s a threat,” Windu said. “But we’re still worried. He’s well-known, and a lot of beings in the galaxy are out for his blood. There’s still a chance that if we find him, we can convince him to come back.” Windu paused, and for the first time, Anakin thought he saw sadness on the man’s stoic face. “Under different circumstances, we’d accept his decision and let him go—but we can’t afford to now.”

“So what’s the plan?” Anakin asked.

“No resources, there are, to search for one that has left us. A war going on, there is," Yoda said.

“So you’re saying we’re just gonna do nothing?” Anakin growled through gritted teeth. “We’re going to abandon him? What if he was confused? What if the war got to him and he made an impulsive choice because he wasn’t thinking like himself? After all, he’s been stressed because of all the work _you_ keep giving him,” Anakin accused. “And he’s been increasingly flippant with his own life on missions. What if he’s looking to go get himself killed? Are we just gonna let him _do_ that?”

Yoda held up a hand and tilted his head, a chastising expression on his features, and Anakin leaned back with a scowl, crossing his arms over his chest. “Abandon young Obi-Wan? No. Left us, he has, though know why we do not. Abandoned him we have not, no. Left us, he has chosen to. But worry for him we do. Left in the past he has before, under dark circumstances. No choice, he felt he had. Worry I do that no different this time is.” Obi-Wan had left the Order before? What the kriff did that even mean, and when had it even happened? Anakin didn’t have a chance to ask, and he didn’t think he’d get an answer anyway. “Wish to help him, to _understand_ , we do. Still, divert efforts to look for him, we are unable to.” Yoda sat back and Anakin recognized the twinkle in his eyes. “Search for him, you will, when afford to you can. Missions we will send you on; gather information on Obi-Wan’s whereabouts, you will, hm?”

Anakin barely stopped himself from kissing the old troll. He couldn’t think of any instance in which a Council member gave him _permission_  to act on his attachments.

And that was it, wasn’t it? He was attached to Obi-Wan. He couldn’t let him go, not without knowing why, and maybe not even after knowing. He felt bereft without his former master, and searching for Obi-Wan’s signature now that he knew Obi-Wan was _gone_ , Anakin keenly felt his absence from the Temple, the permanence of it this time.

He’d lost Obi-Wan before, in the past. He hadn’t known that those instances were temporary at the time, but he remembered the pain, the emptiness that filled his chest when he’d woken up the day after returning from Jabiim and couldn’t feel his master on the other end of the training bond. After they’d gotten him back from Rattatak, Anakin had sworn, privately, that he would never lose Obi-Wan again, no matter the cost.

But this time—

This time, Obi-Wan had left, willingly, without Anakin.

He’d abandoned Anakin. Cast him aside.

No. No, he had to stop thinking like that. Obi-Wan wouldn’t set out to hurt Anakin. He didn’t understand Anakin, that much was true—but he’d always had a warm smile to give, and a gentle touch to the shoulder. He cared, said as much every time Anakin accused him of otherwise. It hadn’t always felt like he’d cared—he was as distant and cold as every Jedi, maybe even more so than was typical—but in his own way, he did care.

This, Anakin was certain of.

There must have been something else, if even the Council didn’t know his reasons for leaving.

Anakin wasn’t sure he _wanted_  to know the reason.

Only something truly terrible could make  _Obi-Wan_  want to leave.

“I’ll make sure the search doesn’t interfere with my missions, Masters,” Anakin said as he stood. He unclipped Obi-Wan’s lightsaber from his belt and held it out to Mace.

But Mace didn’t take it. Instead, he shook his head. Confused, Anakin looked to Yoda, who gave him a sad smile and nodded. With a lump in his throat, he clipped Obi-Wan’s lightsaber back onto his belt.

“Thank you for telling me about this,” Anakin said. “And for giving me permission to look.”

“We know you would’ve done it whether or not we said you could. Don’t pretend to be modest, Skywalker,” Windu said with amusement. “We’re just skipping to the part where we sanction your actions.” He stood as well, as did Yoda. “We have a small bit of news. Obi-Wan took a transport to Hosnian Prime after he left, and a clone from Ghost Company has been reported missing as of this morning, so we suspect that Obi-Wan has taken a clone with him. We’re not sure why, or where they’ll go from Hosnian Prime. You officially have two more weeks of leave left, but we’d like you to use that time to get on Kenobi’s trail before it goes cold.”

“Even if you weren’t asking me, I’d’ve done it anyway, Master Windu,” Anakin said.

Windu nodded. “We’ve arranged a ship for you.” In a soft voice, gentler than Anakin had ever heard him use, he said, “Bring him home, Anakin. May the Force be with you.”

Anakin bowed. “Thank you, Masters. I won’t let you down.”

* * *

Anakin wasted no time in going to Hosnian Prime’s capital.

The spaceport was busy, as all Core world spaceports were. There was the pervading smell of oil and burn-off from starships.

He asked around about Obi-Wan, only to receive no information; none of the workers had seen the infamous Jedi general, and passengers were pointless to ask—they wouldn’t have been there when Obi-Wan was. The harbormaster provided him with a list of passengers for each ship that had departed the previous day as well as that morning. He read through them all, scanning for the familiar Ben, but Obi-Wan’s usual fake name was nowhere to be found on any of the rosters.

Stang. Of _course_ he’d stopped using the name Ben for disguises when it was least convenient for Anakin. Damn him.

Asking about a man in clone armor yielded nothing as well. It had seemed a moot point, since Obi-Wan wasn’t dumb enough to be dragging a clone in full armor along with him, but Anakin had given it a go anyway.

So he changed tactics and pulled up a picture of Rex on his holoprojector.

“Saw a guy that looked kind of like that this morning,” a Duros spaceport employee said, inspecting the picture of Rex, and Anakin’s heart started to race. He knew asking a concessions stand worker was a good idea. “He was walking with a Jedi, I think. He didn’t have blond hair, but the face is the same.”

“The Jedi,” Anakin said, eager, almost breathless. “What did he look like?”

“Didn’t really get a good look, since he had his hood up, but he looked young. He wasn’t very tall,” the Duros shrugged. “His hair might’ve been orange, or blond, I don’t really remember.”

“Did he have a beard?” Anakin prompted, but the Duros shook their head, and Anakin felt frustration creeping up on him.

“No, no, he was clean shaven.”

Oh, that _bastard_. He just couldn’t make it easy for Anakin, could he?

No, of course not. When had Obi-Wan _ever_ made it easy for him?

But it had to be him, Anakin thought as he forced himself to take a breath and calm down. No Jedi had business at Hosnian Prime’s biggest spaceport, no one else would be wearing Jedi robes. And the Jedi had been with a clone.

“Sithspit,” Anakin muttered under his breath. “The Jedi—do you know where he was headed?”

“The ship he got on was headed for the Mid-Rim. I don’t know which planet. It was at that gate over there,” the Duros said, and pointed to a ship four docks down on the other side. “The ship left at about 0930, if that helps.”

“It does. Thank you,” Anakin breathed, and he set off again.

But that dock was where the trail went cold. The transport had twenty stops on its schedule, and not one of the names from that flight was recognizable to Anakin. No picture accompanied the names; Anakin had forgotten that commercial flights only stored passenger names, and documentation was checked before boarding. Obi-Wan had a vast network of underground contacts that would allow him to forge a passport convincing enough to get him anywhere he wished to go.

He read the passenger list over and over again, feeling hope shrivel in his chest and frustration take root. On the roster was Shula Cath, Drexia Haasa, Nico Blanchard, Mark Renton, Ahm Gorgiou, Brooke Solare, and the list went on and on—but no Ben, and none of the names stood out as being particularly notable of Obi-Wan. Even if he tracked each individual, it would take too much time. By the time Anakin figured out which passenger was him, Obi-Wan would be long gone.

* * *

By the time he returned to the Temple, discouraged, news of Obi-Wan’s departure had spread among the Jedi like wildfire. There was a stillness, a feeling of shock coursing through the Force, as well as dismay, and fear.

It seemed that everyone was wondering the same thing: How bad must the reason have been for Obi-Wan, of all Jedi, to leave?

Once more, Anakin found himself wishing that he knew.

But perhaps one of Obi-Wan’s other friends did. Anakin was well aware of the group he’d spent his Initiate days with—all three Knights had made themselves readily available to help in Anakin’s Padawanship in the wake of Obi-Wan’s knighting ceremony and Qui-Gon’s untimely death. At first, Anakin had viewed their presence bitterly—he thought that Obi-Wan kept sending him away to one of his three friends in order to rid himself of Anakin for a while, that he was some kind of nuisance to be passed around when Obi-Wan became tired of taking care of him.

When he’d finally had an outburst, it had been Bant that had sat him down and explained that it was because Obi-Wan spent that time seeking guidance from Council members on how to train a Padawan that Anakin had been passed off to his friends for hours at a time. “If he didn’t want you, he wouldn’t have taken you as Padawan, and if he hadn’t committed, he would’ve denounced you by now,” Bant had explained, running her webbed hand over his hair. “But he was very recently a student himself, and he never had the time to learn how to be a teacher before he became one. I know it’s hard, but you need to be patient, until he figures out how to be a good master.”

From then on, Anakin had come to view his time with Obi-Wan’s friends as enjoyable, even fun. Garen, at the very least, was always happy to practice ‘saber techniques with him, and Bant had taught him how to swim. Reeft managed to make his coursework interesting, though he’d always been a bit boring to be around.

Anakin hunted down each of Obi-Wan’s friends, hoping that maybe, just maybe, Obi-Wan had told one of them anything before he left.

Reeft was distant, shaken, and provided little in the way of answers. He and Obi-Wan hadn’t spent time together in months, though they called each other often over holoprojector. Upon query, Reeft could only shake his head. “There was no indication that he was even _considering_ leaving. But he was closer to Bant than me. She might know something.”

Garen’s response was much the same as Reeft’s. Talk to Bant; if anyone would know, it would be her.

Eventually, Anakin managed to track her down in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, meditating in a spot that he recognized as a favorite of hers and Obi-Wan’s. He settled down next to her and she opened her eyes. They were filled with sorrow. “Any news?” she asked in a small voice.

Anakin sighed. “No. His trail went cold on Hosnian Prime. I was hoping that maybe he told you the reason behind his decision, or where he was going, since he didn’t tell Masters Muln or Reeft.”

She bowed her head. “He didn’t tell me a thing, and I only got back from a mission this morning. He simply left a gift, like we always do for each other when we aren’t in the Temple at the same time. There wasn’t even a note.” She huffed, sounding bitter. “I wish I could provide you with answers, but I have none.”

Bant stared off into the deep waters of the largest fountain. “We’ve both been summoned for a Council meeting,” she said. “They were waiting for you to get back before calling for me.”

“No point in keeping them waiting any longer,” Anakin shrugged, and stood, offering her a hand. She took it.

They set off together and soon found themselves standing side-by-side in the Council chambers, its members gathered either physically or holographically in their chairs. Some of the seats were void—casualties of war. Anakin did his best to ignore the empty spot that was Obi-Wan’s seat.

“We must appoint a new general to replace Kenobi’s position in the army,” Windu began, leaning forward to settle his elbows on his knees.

“Master Bant Eerin,” Windu continued. “You’ve shown considerable leadership ability and compassion during the war, and above that, you are among those that Obi-Wan trusted most throughout his life. With your skill in the field and as a general, the Council feels that you will be the most suitable replacement for Obi-Wan’s former position as High Jedi General of the Third Systems Army and all other responsibilities he may have taken over the course of the war, save for those of Jedi Councillor.”

Anakin glanced to Bant. She was startled, her eyes wide, but her expression smoothed over and she gave a slight bow. “I am honored,” she said.

“General Skywalker,” Windu said, looking directly at Anakin. “Do you find our decision acceptable?”

Anakin started. “Uh,” he managed. “Pardon any disrespect, Master Windu, but why are you asking _me_?”

“Because you worked most closely with Kenobi,” Windu said. “We wish to have your opinion on who would be a good choice, if you don’t mind.” Anakin’s brows shot up. They wanted _his_ opinion? Anakin couldn’t recall a time in which he’d ever been asked what he thought.

He glanced over to Bant, feeling the Council’s eyes on him. Bant was watching him. He couldn’t read her expression, but he thought he could feel a slight anxiety in the Force from her, and that surprised him. She was _worried_ about not having his approval. That he wouldn’t be able to accept any replacement for Obi-Wan.

And he _wouldn’t_.

But Obi-Wan wasn’t here anymore, he thought bitterly.

Bant was a good person and a good strategist. Obi-Wan would approve of the Council’s decision.

He nodded his consent. “There’s no one I’d rather have it be,” Anakin said quietly. “I am honored to serve alongside you, Master Eerin.”

Bant smiled, and Anakin did his best to keep his grief off his face.


	4. Eyes Up, Guardian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to my beta readers! Only a few more chapters until we really kick things off.
> 
> To everyone that commented, left kudos, subscribed, or just read my fic in general: thank you so much for reading! It warms me that the reception so far has been so positive, and I'm excited to show you the rest of what I've planned in the future.
> 
> About five chapters in this act will have video game references as titles. New meta game: which ones are they, and what video games are they from? Some of them will be hinting towards plot stuff! ;)

Socorro was strangely kind to them. They spent a week there, strolling around the markets, buying supplies and looking for a dealer that had ships. They got new communicators and programmed only each other's numbers in them. Kenobi went about purchasing civilian clothing that had the same light color scheme as his Jedi robes. Waxer ended up with three more shirts, and Kenobi had at least five outfits he could rotate through.

They managed to secure a meeting with a human smuggler about a ship called the _Absolution_. It had a class 0.9 hyperdrive, and the seller claimed it to be maneuverable and nimble. It was a decently sized ship with six small living quarters equipped with their own refreshers, a communal kitchen, and a sizable cargo hold. While it didn’t need to be manned by more than two beings at once, there was room for a full crew to live comfortably on longer voyages. Waxer suspected it was the kind of ship smugglers liked best—there were plenty of nooks and crannies to hide illegal goods in.

“I still don’t see why we aren’t getting a smaller ship,” Waxer said as they toured their prospective purchase, rehashing an argument they’d had three times before even looking inside. “It’d be cheaper.”

“This one is the perfect size,” Kenobi replied, stubborn as ever. “Ideal for hauling cargo. We’ll need a cover if we wish to remain undetected.”

Waxer had to admit Kenobi did have a point. They could register the ship as a cargo transport or a private civilian one. Having a ‘job’ would keep suspicion off them; Kenobi’s private funds, sizable though they may be, would eventually run dry, and in wartime, people were willing to pay large amounts to transport sensitive goods. All they needed was to build a reputation as an efficient and safe transport.

“But what about weapons? Shields?” Waxer argued. “It’s got no defenses, sir. We’d have a single manned turret and the weakest shield generator I’ve ever laid eyes on. This piece of junk will fall apart on us the moment we get in a firefight.”

“We’re not going to be getting into firefights,” Kenobi said, pursing his lips. “We’re going to be civilians just trying to make a living, not looking for any trouble. We don’t need stronger defenses. It would look odd.”

“Be that as it may, we’re getting a better shield generator the moment we get our hands on one,” Waxer said. “We might not need the extra firepower, but we _do_ need a better shield.”

“Fine,” Kenobi said, nodding. “That’s fair.”

They fetched a decent price for the _Absolution_ , and payment went surprisingly fast. Waxer couldn’t help but wonder if Kenobi had been using one of his Jedi mind tricks to speed up their negotiations and get them the Hell out of there as fast as possible, but the man was always so subtle with his actions that it was hard to tell.

Waxer voiced his suspicion aloud, but Kenobi merely gave him a look and said, “Not a Jedi anymore, remember?”

Rolling his eyes, Waxer merely muttered, “Doesn’t mean you can’t still use weird Jedi shit.” Kenobi, of course, heard him and laughed.

Once they got the ship, Kenobi took the trouble to further make the exterior look haggard and beaten, so that they would go unnoticed and unbothered—people rarely wanted to take anything that looked ready to break at any second, after all. Once all that had been finished, they purchased food and water, then fueled up the ship.

They agreed to swap piloting, though Kenobi seemed unhappy—nervous, even—about the fact they would be spending most of their time in a ship. When Waxer asked him about it, Kenobi said, “You may not believe it, but I’ve never really liked flying.”

“Don’t you fly all the time?” Waxer pointed out.

“Yes,” Kenobi huffed in response. “And I’ve loathed every minute of it.”

Luckily, it wasn’t difficult flying, by any means. Waxer thanked all the gods he could think of for giving them a simple time of hopping around the galaxy. There was no out-flying an enemy fighter, no shooting anyone down—and Gods forbid they ended up in a situation where they were getting shot at. They really would _never_ make it through a fight.

All those worries aside, they just flew where Kenobi said they needed to go. Easy enough.

* * *

They’d been wandering for weeks now, following a list of planets Kenobi had compiled to search for what he called holocrons—little cubes that could only be opened by the Force and contained knowledge about a wide variety of topics. There were holocrons about ‘saber techniques, about the histories of planets, and of recounts of political events, to name a few subjects. The Jedi Archives, Kenobi told him, were filled with holocrons, some of them for the eyes of Council members only. Many more were out in the universe, forgotten by time, containing information lost to the Jedi Order.

It quickly became clear that some of those lost holocrons may have been intentionally lost. Who or what the Jedi were trying to protect by doing that, Waxer didn’t know, and Kenobi didn’t either.

Currently, their ship was settled in a clearing on Yavin 4, and they’d been walking due north for almost an hour. Yavin 4 hadn’t been on the list. Kenobi had insisted they land on the moon because of a ‘feeling,’ which Waxer knew was code for ‘Force stuff.’

Waxer already didn’t care for Yavin 4. The place was too humid, too hot, and he kept having to slap blood-sucking insects off his exposed skin as they walked. The cloud cover was dense grey and a thick mist drifted through the trees. It kept raining on and off, and when it _did_ rain, the water came down hot and heavy, like stepping into a warm shower. It drenched their clothes and made the forest floor slippery. The rain’s temperature might’ve been pleasant had Waxer not already been sweating buckets.

Kenobi didn’t seem bothered by the fact that he was getting drenched, his cloak drawn tightly around his body. He may have forgone his Jedi tunics in favor of civilian clothes, but he’d kept the cloak, and Waxer knew his Jedi clothes were stashed away somewhere on their ship, hidden from sight. The cloak alone was generic enough that it wouldn’t have Kenobi immediately identified as a Jedi, so Waxer hadn’t pressed about why he hadn’t gotten something new.

Waxer exhaled and his helmet immediately fogged up with condensation. It was so damn  _hot_ here. Kenobi had insisted on the helmets because their faces were too recognizable. They’d stumbled upon them in the markets on Socorro, being sold by a Rodian vendor in a nondescript stall, and Kenobi had been enthralled by how they functioned. Upon query, the Rodian had produced a couple made for humans.

The helmet was a metal band that hooked over the top of the ears and wrapped around the back of the head like a pair of spectacles on backwards. Pressing a button on the right earpiece of the band caused the helmet to expand and wrap around the wearer’s head; pressing it again would cause it to retract, folding itself back into the band. The eye pieces had a blue tint to them and were reflective, so no one could discern their gazes. It made peripheral vision completely useless, but Waxer was used to that thanks to the clone armor, and Kenobi had the Force to compensate for him. The helmet came with an oxygen purification system, a backup oxygen supply, and pressure support, as well as a private comm system and external speakers that could be switched on and off at whim.

If it weren’t for the fact that it didn’t cover the neck, it could’ve been worn in the vacuum of space. It probably still could, given the metal extended part way down the throat, far enough that it would catch and hold fabric.

Kenobi had purchased them for their full price, not bothering to negotiate for them. They hadn’t had the time, and Kenobi had maintained that, for their function and quality, the price had been fair. Waxer believed him, because the helmets _were_ good, and not uncomfortable. They’d agreed to wear them whenever they went planetside. If they spent any time in the Core Worlds or Mid-Rim, Waxer would be outed as a clone the moment someone saw his face, and Kenobi was certain that the Jedi were searching for him.

Waxer hadn’t yet determined whether or not that was true, but he didn’t doubt it. He didn’t think the Jedi would’ve taken his leaving very well, given the circumstances and how damn _important_ Kenobi was.

It was still weird to think of Kenobi as anything other than a Jedi, though. The fact that Kenobi had left the Order still sent his thoughts reeling. It didn’t compute, didn’t fit in with his admittedly narrow world view. There were some things that just made sense. One: a good soldier followed orders. Two: Waxer was a good soldier. Three: Kenobi was a Jedi, and a damn good one too.

Evidently, none of those things were true any longer, unless Waxer considered going with Kenobi ‘following orders.’

He got the feeling that no one would see it that way.

* * *

“Where are we going, sir?” Waxer asked after an extended silence. The rain had lightened to a drizzle and his hand kept drifting to the blaster pistol strapped to his upper thigh. His instincts were on high alert. They hadn’t had any trouble so far, but the moon was unfamiliar territory; anything could happen at any moment, and Kenobi still didn’t have a weapon.

“We’re heading to an ancient Sith temple,” Kenobi replied after a few moments, pushing leaves out of the way and holding them aside for Waxer to pass through. Kenobi ducked under them and took the lead again.

Waxer’s brows rose. “A _Sith_ temple? General, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I’ve told you to call me Obi-Wan,” Kenobi said, and Waxer could hear the frown in his voice. “I’m not your general anymore.”

“You’ll always be my general,” Waxer countered. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

Kenobi sighed and his shoulders visibly dropped. “I’m uncertain, but the Force has led me here. If you’re curious, this temple, and the others on this moon, were built by the Massassi to worship a Sith Lord.”

“No offense, sir, but you’re basically still a Jedi, even if you left the Order. I don’t think the Massassi will be very welcoming.”

Kenobi chuckled, though he sounded sad. “Not to worry. The Massassi were wiped out thousands of years ago. As far as we know, there’s not a single one left, and the Sith have long since left the planet. Besides, the Massassi didn’t do any of the Sith’s bidding willingly—he enslaved the Massassi and mutated them until they were no longer recognizable.”

Waxer shuddered. Enslaved a whole species? He couldn’t imagine what kind of power would be needed for an individual, even a Sith, to do that. “How’d you find out about a place like this?” he asked.

“You’d be surprised at what exists in the Jedi Archives if one looks hard enough,” Kenobi replied. “I’ve always been fascinated with history, though much of the ancient Sith history has been lost. It took some digging to find out about this place, but as a member of the Council, I had access to a lot more information, and I had a lot less scrutiny placed upon me for looking. The locals know of the temples, of course, but not their origins, or their purpose.”

Waxer squinted at Kenobi. “I know you really like to flirt with danger, sir, but isn’t researching Sith stuff pushing it, even for a Council member?”

“I’m sure nobody noticed,” Kenobi said. “And Madame Nu wasn’t going to tell anyone about it. She likes me far too much. Besides, I needed the information. If I hadn’t done any research, we wouldn’t even know where to begin searching for holocrons. Yavin 4 just so happened to be a location I brushed up on before leaving.”

With a resigned sigh, he asked, “What’re we going to find here?”

“I’m hoping to find out,” Kenobi said.

The trees thinned and they emerged into another clearing; in the middle, vines crawling up and through cracked stone walls, was a monstrous ziggurat.

He’d seen it from a distance when they’d set down, ominous and looming, towering over the trees. During their trek, he had caught glimpses of it through the layers of leaves. But up close, it was even more menacing. Sets of stairs with steps reaching his hips in height marked the corners of the structure. Right angles carried it upwards into a pyramidal shape, with four receding stories.

Waxer gave a low whistle. “Well, Sith me,” he said.

“Careful what you wish for,” Kenobi teased, and headed towards the temple’s base.

He stopped in front of the entrance, a large open space that cut into the temple’s heart. It was so big that ships could’ve fit inside, and Waxer wondered why they didn’t just land here instead of walking all that way.

Kenobi paused at the entrance and after a few moments moved once again, but his motions were slow and airy, as though his body had gone on autopilot. Waxer kept to his heels, not wishing to be separated. He followed Kenobi up flights of stairs and through room after room until they found themselves in what seemed to be a ceremonial chamber of sorts, with an elevated altar at the other end of the large, empty space.

Something sat atop the altar, emitting a soft green light in the dark of the room. An oppressive energy filled the room, made Waxer’s knees feel weak. Kenobi strode across to the altar, pressing the side of his metal band as he did so. The helmet retracted with a series of clicks. Waxer followed closely, his blaster drawn at the ready, thumbing the side of his own helmet, and it fell away from his face, back into its band. Closer now, Waxer could see that a _golden_ gem sat on the altar, barely the size of one of his fingernails. It pulsated with power in waves, and as he drew up to the edge of the altar, the air around him seemed to get thicker, like it was resisting his movements.

Kenobi reached for the crystal.

Waxer grabbed his wrist. “Should you be touching that?” he asked.

Kenobi made a face. “Yes?”

“Your response doesn’t inspire any confidence in me, sir.”

“Sorry, I’ll try again. _Yes_ , I should be touching it,” Kenobi said, an amused expression settling over his features.

“I don’t know. It gives me a weird feeling.”

Kenobi’s raised a brow. “Really? How so?”

Waxer shrugged. “Just—” He waved his hand in a non-gesture. “I don’t know how to explain it, sir, but I usually trust my instincts. This whole place doesn’t feel right.”

“For a non-sensitive, you’ve an uncanny ability to sense darkness, Waxer. However, this is an ancient Sith temple. Darkness is to be expected,” Kenobi said, and tugged his wrist out of Waxer’s grip. Waxer let him go. “What you’re looking at, however, is a kyber crystal. These crystals are the heart of a lightsaber. They are naturally attuned to the light, so you have nothing to worry about.” He paused, then reached out to the gem again. He rested the tip of his index finger on it. “I did not know what we would find here when we arrived. But it seems the Force has guided me so that I may retrieve this. Normally, a Jedi chooses the crystal, their selection aided by the Force. It seems in this case, the crystal has chosen me.” Kenobi picked it up and weighed it in his hand.

Waxer cocked his head. “Does that mean you’ll finally have a weapon again?”

Kenobi rolled his eyes. “Yes, Waxer, it does.”

He moved back and sat at the bottom of the steps leading up to the altar, facing it, his legs crossed and his cloak spread out over the floor behind him. He dragged his satchel out from under it. He opened the bag and carefully laid out on the floor in front of him a number of metal parts and a power pack, placing the kyber crystal in the center of the mess.

“Er,” Waxer said. “You’re going to assemble it here?”

“Yes,” Kenobi said.

“Shouldn’t you do that back on the ship? I don’t think it’s a good idea to stay here longer than we need to.”

Kenobi shook his head. “It needs to be done now.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Waxer murmured.

Probably the will of the Force, Waxer figured. He wasn’t going to win this argument no matter how much he tried. With a grunt, he sat down with his back against the altar. The stone under him was icy, the chill seeping through his clothes, and he felt cold despite the heat that still hung heavy in the air.

Kenobi’s eyes closed and his breathing slowed. A silence descended upon the temple; everything went still. Listening carefully, Waxer could hear nothing, not even the ambient noise of the forest outside. He drew his knees up and folded his arms over the top of them, watching Kenobi meditate. Seconds ticked by, then minutes, then a glance at his commlink told him it had been an hour. He kept alert, waiting for any threats to make themselves known, but the air was thick with moisture and the heat wasn’t so stifling inside the temple, comfortably pleasant, and he found himself struggling to keep his eyes open as seconds, minutes, maybe even _hours_ , slipped by him. He felt so tired. Despite all his training, Waxer lost track of time and dozed against the cold stone, head nodding against his chest.

A crackling energy shot through the room. Waxer jerked to attention, eyes wide and locked on Kenobi, who sat in the exact place he had settled before, in the exact position. The space around Kenobi seemed to brighten. He lifted his hands and the crystal floated into the air. It held position at chest-level, and it glowed brighter and brighter until Waxer had to shield his eyes. Power thrummed off it and the room seemed to vibrate with the sheer vigor of it. The lightsaber parts lifted up, rotating around the crystal and rearranging themselves in an intricate dance. Metal sliding over metal, the crystal fitting into a slot, bolts spinning into place.

Covered by a casing, the light disappeared and the room went dark once more. The hilt reminded Waxer of Kenobi’s old weapon. The top part was similarly built—thick, cylindrical silver metal with a narrowed middle, colored gold. Below that was a black switch with a yellow trim and button. The body was short, black and grey, made for two hands to fit comfortably around.

The lightsaber drifted gently into Kenobi’s outstretched hands. He opened his eyes. They glowed vibrant blue in the gloom.

“What happened?” Waxer breathed. “There was a—weird energy. I’m pretty sure I’m not Force sensitive, sir, but I felt _something_. What was it?”

“I’m not sure,” Kenobi murmured. “But I fear I’ve revealed our location to any Force sensitives in the system. It’s time for us to go.”

“Kriffing hell,” Waxer groaned. “You should’ve done this on the ship.”


	5. Echoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pretty short chapter this update. It happened to line up perfectly with my finals week, which meant I wasn't stressing out over edits. I promise this is the shortest chapter in Act 1.
> 
> Apologies that I couldn't respond to all the comments this time. I was a too busy with final projects to do it.
> 
> Thanks again to my betas! <3 you. See you all in two weeks.

Anakin’s search for Master Obi-Wan was halted, and Ahsoka found herself on deployment to Sullust with the 501st and the 212th under Master Eerin’s command. They spent a few days in hyperspace, and between strategy meetings and debriefings, there wasn’t any time to investigate reports of disturbances on the Outer Rim that may or may not have Master Obi-Wan written all over them.

Master Eerin was kind enough, and a capable Jedi Master, Ahsoka supposed, but she wasn’t Master Obi-Wan. She knew that Master Eerin had been his friend, and a good one at that— _best_ friends, according to Anakin. Anakin seemed comfortable enough around her, and though the warmth that he had with Master Obi-Wan wasn’t present, their familiarity had eased Ahsoka a little.

Ahsoka just couldn’t bring herself to open up in quite the same way to her as she had with Master Obi-Wan. She felt awful about it, a gnawing guilt that disrupted her appetite and her focus. Master Eerin was trying her best, and she knew she wasn’t making the general’s new job much easier. It was tough enough to take over all of Master Obi-Wan’s military responsibilities, but it seemed that Master Eerin had decided it was her job to be a guiding hand for Ahsoka as well. She was trying to connect with Ahsoka, fill the void in her heart that she knew Master Obi-Wan had resided in, but it only served to make Ahsoka feel worse, and she didn’t know how to convey to Master Eerin that she couldn’t replace Master Obi-Wan, no matter how hard she may try.

She’d been _attached_ to her grandmaster, she thought miserably. She was supposed to let him go, and she couldn’t, and neither could her own master, who kept Master Obi-Wan’s old lightsaber at his belt at all times.

It was nice, at least, to have Master Eerin’s Padawan, Davs Kovani, around—he and Ahsoka had been good friends as Initiates, and it’d been enjoyable to catch up.

But the space where Master Obi-Wan should’ve been was still empty, and Ahsoka kept taking notice. It surprised her every time, even though a couple of weeks had passed, to find that Master Obi-Wan wasn’t there next to Anakin, his presence in the Force gone.

Well, not _gone_ —but imperceptible. It wasn’t like his Force presence had simply winked out of existence—he hadn’t _died_ , after all. His signature was still there if she focused hard enough during meditation; she could feel the edges of it brushing against her mind, just out of reach, bright and alive and full of light, but the moment she attempted to grasp at it her attention seemed to wane, captured by something else. It was as though he was gently pushing her gaze elsewhere, and her mind listened to the suggestion, sliding right off of his signature like water sliding down transparisteel.

Somehow, he’d made himself impossible to lock onto. Exactly how he’d done it, she had no idea, and she couldn’t recall a single shielding technique that accomplished what he did. She had never encountered such a technique in neither Sith nor Jedi. Anakin hadn’t found him, so she suspected he hadn’t encountered those techniques either. The distance between them was great, and Master Obi-Wan had no doubt thrown up the tightest shields he could muster, keeping his thoughts inscrutable to her master. Even the _Council_ hadn’t found him—and if the _Council_ couldn’t find Master Obi-Wan, how could Ahsoka hope to?

She wondered if Master Yoda would know anything about shielding techniques that used Force suggestion. Master Obi-Wan had always been particularly skilled with suggestion. Perhaps if she asked, she’d learn something that might help her find her grandmaster.

With that on her mind, she sat alone in the mess and poked at her dinner, a frown on her face.

A clone appeared across from her. She looked up.

“Mind if we join you, sir?” the clone—Boil—asked, and she glanced at the three other clones with him.

“Not at all, Lieutenant,” she said, and the clones took their seats at the table. All of them were from Ghost Company, it looked like. She recognized Boil from the instances Master Obi-Wan had called for him, and she vaguely remembered Slash, who had two scars across his right brow, but the other two she didn’t recall. One of them had an undercut and the rest of his hair flopped over to the right side. The other had hair buzzed short like Rex with a yellow starbird tattooed across his left cheek.

The two seemed to notice her looking at them, because the one with the starbird tattoo said, “I’m Talon, and he’s Gray. We’ve heard lots about you. It’s nice to officially meet you, Commander.”

Ahsoka inclined her head. “Likewise, troopers.”

Someone was missing. Someone she’d never seen Boil without. Someone who was practically attached to him at the hip.

“Waxer not around today?” she asked.

Slash flinched, and the other two grimaced at each other. Boil’s expression darkened, as though a storm cloud has passed over him.

“He, er,” Slash started, but Talon shook his head, and Slash shut his mouth.

Gray cross his arms and pursed his lips. “Waxer deserted, sir.”

Ahsoka blinked. Boil turned to Gray, fire in his eyes. “He did _not_ desert. Don’t you _ever_ say something like that about him,” Boil snarled.

“How else do you explain it then?” Gray countered. “He disappeared at a pretty convenient time along with General Kenobi, didn’t he?”

“You don’t know him!” Boil shouted, half out of his seat, his hands curling into fists on the table. “You don’t know him like I do.”

Talon placed a hand on Boil’s shoulder and pulled him back down. Boil collapsed back into his chair and covered his face, breathing heavily. “Calm down, vod,” Talon said. “Is this how you’re supposed to act in front of a commander? Waxer’d be disappointed, you know that.”

Ahsoka was shocked. Surely the Council and Anakin had both known by now which clone had vanished, but apparently no one had bothered to tell _her_ about it. She fixed her gaze on Boil. “Tell me what happened when he left?” she asked.

Boil dropped his hands from his face and scowled at the food on his tray. “A few weeks ago,” he started, and the words sounded rehearsed, like he’d already explained many times (and he probably had, if the Council had questioned him), “the day General Kenobi abandoned us—Waxer showed up to tell me he’d be going away on an extended assignment and wouldn’t be back for a while. Said he wanted to say goodbye in case we didn’t see each other again. Made sense at the time, you know, ‘cause brothers die all the time, and just because we’ve been lucky so far doesn’t mean it won’t happen to one of us.”

He took a breath. “Two days later, we found out General Kenobi gave up his position and left, just left us without a general during a karking war. Like we meant nothing to him. Then a brother was reported having disappeared the same time as him.” His voice cracked. “I was the last one to see him. I don’t know what he was thinking, or what General Kenobi said to him, but whatever happened…”

“Whatever happened, it convinced Waxer to leave,” Slash finished for him.

With a choked sob, Boil said, “He even left his karking armor behind. I found it in his bunk. He’s out there in civvies doing God knows what and he’s got nothin’ protecting him. How the kriff did none of us notice him leaving?”

“We’re searching for them,” Ahsoka said, reaching out to place her hand over Boil’s. His head jerked up and it hurt her to see there were tears in his eyes, and his pain was flooding the Force, an acute betrayal Ahsoka had never experienced before. “We’re looking for Master Kenobi when we can—when the war allows us to do so. If Waxer is accompanying him, we’ll find him too. I promise you that.”

Boil granted her a watery smile. “All due respect, Commander, but I know if he’s caught and brought back, he’s going to be punished—he’ll be lucky if it doesn’t end in execution.” He lowered his eyes to his tray and pushed some of his food around on his plate. “I… I hate to say it, but—” He halted and swallowed thickly, then worried at his bottom lip. “But Gray is right. Waxer deserted—” His voice caught on the word and he stopped talking. He was crying openly now, shoulders hunched over and shaking, tears tracking down his cheeks and dripping onto his vegetables. Talon placed a tentative arm around Boil.

“I’ll make sure Waxer gets a fair trial and a chance to explain himself,” she insisted, wracking her brain for some way to reassure Boil. She could feel his nervousness, his fear, the intensity of his concern, most poignantly his _grief_ tasting like unripe meiloorun on her tongue. “If we find them, they’ll be under Jedi jurisdiction, since the situation is Jedi business—even if the Senate thinks otherwise. We don’t know the full story. Waxer will receive fair treatment and we won’t let anything happen to him until we’re absolutely certain of what the circumstances were. You have my word.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Boil said, a tentative smile fluttering across his lips, and the jagged edges around his emotions settled some. “I really, really appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” she replied.

* * *

On the bridge, she shared what she’d learned with Anakin and tried her best to let go of the anger she felt on Boil’s behalf. Surely Master Obi-Wan _knew_ how close the two clones had been. There had been thousands to choose from, and he’d put Boil through that heartbreak instead of picking anyone else.

“The Council and I get why he’d take a clone with him, but what we still don’t understand is why Waxer?” Anakin wondered aloud as he paced back and forth. His hands were clasped behind his back and he radiated tension in the Force so overwhelmingly that Ahsoka’s muscles were starting to ache.

Ahsoka shrugged. “I thought his choice was strange, too. I would’ve thought he’d take Cody, or something.”

“Cody’s marshal commander. I think Obi-Wan didn’t pick him because the 212th wouldn’t be able to take that loss as well,” Anakin said.

At the sound of his name, Cody glanced over at them from where he stood at the center console. Anakin stopped pacing and turned to Cody. “Commander, I’m sure the Council has already questioned you about it, but did you notice anything off about Obi-Wan, before he left?” he asked.

Cody’s head cocked to one side, the helmet giving nothing away about what he might’ve been thinking.

“I didn’t mention it to the Council at the time, because I’d forgotten about it,” he said after a brief hesitation, voice steady, but Ahsoka could feel the tumultuous emotions roiling underneath the surface of his thoughts, bottled up and hidden away behind a wall of discipline. “There was one instance. It was a while ago, so I don’t know if it holds any precedence or is even remotely related to General Kenobi’s decision.”

“Anything you have will help,” Ahsoka said.

“It was during the incident on Saleucami,” he said. “General Kenobi collapsed suddenly as soon as Grievous escaped us the first time, for no discernible reason.”

Anakin’s jaw tensed. “He didn’t tell me about that.”

“No, sir, I didn’t think he would,” Cody responded. Ahsoka thought he sounded vaguely amused, though wistful. “It took a couple of minutes for him to come back from—whatever it was. He’d gone so still when he hit the floor I’d thought him dead at first. Stopped thinking that as soon as he started screaming.”

Ahsoka pressed her lips together. Her master looked pale.

“He hadn’t sustained any damage that I could discern, and he kept brushing me off afterwards,” Cody continued.

“You should’ve pushed him more,” Anakin said. “You _know_ he always lies about how he’s doing.”

“To be fair, sir, we were chasing down _Grievous_ at the time,” Cody said, and oh, the tone he was using was reminiscent of Master Obi-Wan’s when he found something funny that no one else did, equal parts sardonic and amused. It seemed Cody had picked up some of Master Obi-Wan’s quirks. “We couldn’t exactly spare a moment to make sure. I had to take his word for it.”

Anakin’s metal fist clenched. He exhaled loudly through his nose and let his fingers loosen. “It didn’t affect his fighting in any way?”

Cody shook his head. “No, sir. In fact, as soon as he regained lucidity, it was as though nothing had happened at all.”

Ahsoka stepped forward. “It sounds like Master Obi-Wan had a vision mid-battle,” she said.

Anakin nodded, a tight jerk of his head. “He mentioned that he’s had some really bad ones in the past, but they only ever occurred when he was sleeping, and even those were very rare. He definitely never got them when he was awake. I’m just glad he wasn’t actually _dueling_ Grievous when it hit.”

“Do you think that’s why he left?” Ahsoka asked quietly, her thoughts reeling. Master Obi-Wan had always encouraged _not_ lingering on a vision, in case trying to stop it brought it to fruition. In the face of his own visions and the visions of others, he was unflappable; even when faced with a problem that, on the surface, seemed unsolvable, his calm didn’t falter. He was a steady beacon of surety and poise in a time where there was little to be found, and even the Council had relied heavily on his steadfastness. “A vision? Is that why he decided to leave?”

For Master Obi-Wan to be so shaken by a vision—it was unthinkable.

But so had been the idea that he would ever leave the Order.

Perhaps a lot of things she’d thought impossible were not so impossible after all.

“Cody’s right. It happened a while ago,” Anakin said, putting a hand on his hip and running the other through his hair. He sighed. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if he spent weeks meditating on it before making his decision. You know how he gets.”

“He did meditate a lot more after it was all over,” Cody agreed. “And he kept to himself more. I would lose track of him almost constantly, truth be told. General Kenobi’s real slippery when he wants to be.”

“Yeah, he is,” Anakin said. “He’s a real pain in the ass, isn’t he?”

“How interesting,” Cody said. “General Kenobi used to say the same about you.”

Despite the tone of their conversation and the inappropriate timing, Ahsoka failed to stop the laughter that erupted from her at her master’s scandalized face.

* * *

They’d tracked down Ventress and cornered her only for her to escape their grasp.

The likelihood of her having survived was slim, though, and there had been no survivors in the explosion of the Separatist command ship.

Ahsoka could tell that Anakin was frustrated.

“I don’t think she’s dead,” he growled as he paced around the near-empty bridge. “Ventress always finds a way to get out of this kind of thing without a scratch.”

“You don’t know for sure, Master,” Ahsoka said, crossing her arms and shifting her weight onto one foot. Ahsoka hadn’t been there to confront Ventress, but Anakin had told her what happened. Bant and Ventress had crashed into the hangar of the Separatist flagship, Anakin hot on their tails. They’d fought her, and a bomber had crashed into the hangar after them, causing them to cease fighting in order to avoid being crushed. With the ship falling apart around them, Master Eerin and Anakin had decided to evacuate, leaving Ventress to her supposed death.

But Anakin wasn’t convinced.

“If Obi-Wan had been with me, we would’ve captured her,” he spat. “She was alone, no reinforcements—Dooku had abandoned her. We could’ve captured her.”

Ahsoka frowned. “C’mon, Skyguy,” she chastised. “Even if Master Obi-Wan had been there, there’s no guarantee that it would’ve turned out any different. It’s not fair of you to compare Master Eerin to him like that. He… he wouldn’t approve.”

Anakin deflated, slumping against the center console. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes. Ahsoka wasn’t sure, but it looked like he was close to crying. “Sorry, Snips. You’re right. I shouldn’t do that. It’s not her fault that he’s not with us.”

He looked out past the viewport, his gaze going distant.

Ahsoka moved to stand next to him, rubbing her arm. She felt awkward, unsure of herself, like she had been the day she’d been sent to meet Anakin and Master Obi-Wan on Christophsis, under siege and facing enemy fire. But this time—this time she let it show. There was no false bravado, no pretending she knew what to do. She didn’t have to pretend; she didn’t want to. “Do you think he’s okay?” she asked.

Anakin was silent. Beneath her feet, Ahsoka could feel the ship thrumming with life; within its hull, she could sense thousands of bright lights, present in the troops, glowing strong and bold.

Among those familiar lights, Master Obi-Wan’s presence was nowhere to be found. It was gone. His warmth, his small but kind smiles, his gentle guidance—all of it was gone.

And no one knew if he was coming back. If he’d be _alive_ to come back.

Ahsoka bit her trembling lip, trying to fight back the tears. Anakin wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, and she leaned into his warmth, pressing her cheek against the worn cloth of his tunic.

“What do you think he’s doing, right now?” she asked finally, voice cracking.

Anakin glanced down at her, then returned his gaze to the stars. “I don’t know,” he said, and she knew he was trying to be strong for her, putting his own grief aside so that he could comfort her. Guilt rushed through their bond before she could snatch it back and shove it behind shields, but Anakin noticed. He hugged her tighter and coaxed her sorrow out along their bond, cocooning her mind in comfort and warmth. “I don’t know what he’s doing, Ahsoka. But whatever it is he left us for—it better have been worth it.”


	6. Hunt the Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -blows kazoo- Early chapter to celebrate me having passed all my classes last quarter with A's! And also to celebrate the fact I'm on summer vacation right now.
> 
> ...And also because I couldn't wait, and wanted to make up for last chapter being really short. Thanks again to my betas!
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: references to pedophilia, explicit mentions of slavery

“Anakin, my boy, it’s so nice to see you,” Chancellor Palpatine said, gesturing for Anakin to step forward into his office. The man was sitting at his desk, holding a datapad in his hand.

Anakin entered the room and the guards closed the door behind him. “I apologize if I’m interrupting something important,” he said by way of greeting.

“Not at all, not at all,” the Chancellor said, waving his hand dismissively. “I asked you to come, after all.” Palpatine stood, setting the datapad down. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been better,” Anakin shrugged.

“I heard about Master Kenobi’s resignation,” Palpatine said, walking up to Anakin and then guiding him to one of the couches. They sat side-by-side in the sunlight shining through the windows. “It’s such a shame he left us. He was such an asset to the Republic. I also heard about the Council’s chosen replacement. While Master Eerin is admirable and talented, I think they should’ve listened to me when I advised that you take Kenobi’s place.”

Anakin frowned. He didn’t want to talk about it, but if anyone was going to listen to his grievances about the situation, it would be Palpatine.

Then again, the Council _had_ listened. At least, Masters Yoda and Windu had. They’d even asked for his opinion, seemed to value it highly and would’ve chosen someone else had Anakin said no, he couldn’t accept Bant as his commanding officer. And he knew that Bant wouldn’t have been offended, would’ve accepted his decision with all the grace and poise of a Master Jedi.

Anakin felt ashamed of himself. If it had been him in Bant’s position, he knew he would’ve acted out, made a fool of himself in front of the Council—all because one person _might_ have looked at him and thought him unworthy. “I thank you for your confidence in me, Chancellor, but I’m definitely not ready to take command over the entire Third Systems Army. I don’t have enough experience, and overseeing that much of the Republic army requires a patience I don’t have.”

Palpatine’s smile faltered, but it reappeared as quickly as it seemed to disappear. That was strange. Did he feel so strongly about the Council’s choice?

“The Council consulted me before they made their decision, and I agreed with it. I was present for Master Eerin’s promotion, and I don’t think she would have accepted the position without my approval,” he assured.

“Hm, well, it’s good that they’ve decided to listen to you for once,” Palpatine said. “Goodness knows they don’t do so enough. The young can provide much insight, after all, in a trying time and in unfamiliar circumstances.” Palpatine rested his hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “Tell me, my boy—how are you handling your old master’s departure?”

A grimace found its way to Anakin’s face. “I’m angry at him. Furious, even. He left without telling me why. I’ve been trying to stay calm for Ahsoka’s sake, and because we’re at war. If I get distracted during battle, either I’ll end up dead or someone under my command will. I can’t afford that.”

Palpatine studied Anakin’s face. For some reason, it made Anakin want to squirm. “You’re holding out on me, child,” he said gently. “It’s alright. You can tell me anything, you know that.”

With a frustrated sigh, Anakin dropped his head into his hands and tangled his fingers in his hair. “I feel lost,” he admitted. “I’m so karking _mad_ at Obi-Wan. I miss him so much it feels like there’s a hole in my chest. I want to scream at him and kick his ass from here to Tatooine. I want to find him. I never want to see him again. I want to drag him back here and tell him how much the Order and the Republic still need him—how much _I_ still need him.”

Palpatine’s hand was running over his back in soothing circles. “It’s understandable to feel these conflicting things, my boy. He betrayed you by leaving you behind.”

“Yeah—exactly!” Anakin exclaimed. “He didn’t trust me enough to tell me he was going to go at all. I thought—we were a _team_ , you know? Kenobi and Skywalker, Skywalker and Kenobi.”

“Where there’s one, the other is never far behind,” Palpatine echoed the famous line, the one that had been making the rounds on the HoloNews for months now.

Anakin laughed, a bitter sound erupting from his chest. “It’s like he didn’t even _care_. How could he not care about us? He said all the time, the Jedi were his family—and he _left us behind_.” Tears were leaking now, stinging his eyes and running hot down his cheeks.

“I don’t know what to do,” Anakin continued. “I don’t think I know how to live without him, knowing that this is—is _permanent_. When we were apart before, I knew we’d see each other again, but this time—he’s not—he’s not coming back—” Anakin broke off, choking on his words. He sucked in a breath, closed his eyes.

Palpatine embraced him. Anakin buried his face in the old man’s shoulder. “It’s alright, Anakin. I’ve got you,” Palpatine murmured.

Anakin thought of the holocron Obi-Wan had left him, still unopened under his pillow in his quarters. He thought of bringing it up but—it didn’t feel right to mention it to Palpatine. He didn’t want anyone to know about it; not Ahsoka, not Palpatine, not even Padmé. If he spoke of it, Palpatine would tell him to open it, to find if there were any hints about where Obi-Wan had run off to, but Anakin wasn’t ready. Not yet.

He was scared of what the holocron would tell him. Scared of what truth rested inside its crystalline facets.

But it wasn’t just that.

In the moments after his initial failure coming back from the Hosnian Prime spaceport, alone in his quarters and stewing in his own guilt and despair, he _had_ tried to open it.

‘Try’ being the operative word.

Maybe he hadn’t concentrated hard enough to make the Force nudge open the gold-plated facets. Or maybe his fear and his anger had made his grasp of the Force too wild—the way it sometimes did—and he hadn’t been able to keep his composure long enough to discover whatever message Obi-Wan had left him. Frustrated, he had tried to pry it open to no avail—it wouldn’t listen to him, wouldn’t bend to him, no matter how angry he got, no matter how loudly he screamed at it through the Force. The mechanisms were simply too intricate, a complex puzzle that only a delicate touch could solve.

A touch Anakin did not possess.

He’d already failed to find Obi-Wan. Ashamed of his _second_ failure that day, he hadn’t attempted to open the holocron since.

Obi-Wan would’ve been disappointed. Disappointed that Anakin wasn’t the Jedi he could be, disappointed that Anakin couldn’t stay in the Light long enough to open a Force-forsaken _holocron_.

And now—

Now he was too scared to try again, because he hadn’t been ready to know Obi-Wan’s message the first time, and perhaps he never would be.

He took a few moments to recompose himself, then pulled back, drying his eyes with the back of his hand. “The Council keeps giving me chances to find him, but every time I come back empty-handed. It’s getting so— _frustrating_ ,” Anakin croaked once he’d found his voice again.

“The Council gave you permission to search for him?” Palpatine said, sounding surprised. “I thought the Jedi would have told you to let him go.”

“They _want_ me to find him,” Anakin said, sniffling, feeling like he was nine again—except it wasn’t Obi-Wan he was crying on, it was the _Chancellor_ , and Force, this was _wrong_ but it felt good to get this all out, felt good to be able to cry. “He was one of our best generals. There’s no denying how invaluable he was to the war effort, and while Master Eerin is competent, she can’t produce the same results.”

“I’m glad they’re letting you look,” Palpatine said, his eyes soft. “I do hope you find him. We really do still need his skills and his wisdom in this trying time. I’m sure that, with your abilities, you’ll track him down in no time.”

“I wish that were true,” Anakin said. “But his trail’s gone stone cold. I have no idea where he could be, and the Council doesn’t know either.”

The Chancellor made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Well, that won’t do. I’ll have some of my people put their ears to the ground and see if they can’t find anything. If I get any news of Kenobi, I’ll be sure to contact you.”

At that, Anakin managed to crack a genuine smile. “Thank you, Chancellor. I really appreciate it.”

Palpatine smiled back, warm and familiar. “It’s no trouble at all, my boy.”

* * *

He cut his meeting with the Chancellor short and hurried back to the Temple to deliver his mission report. Master Eerin had already given hers by the time he arrived, and she touched his shoulder gently as he passed by her through the doors. The all-too-familiar gesture made him jerk, and instead of Bant, Obi-Wan was there, an amused smile on his lips, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Anakin blinked and Obi-Wan was gone, and Bant was looking at him with concern. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I just—had a moment.”

He bowed stiffly and turned to enter the Council chambers. After the standard greetings, he relayed the battle’s events in a dull tone, leaving out embellishments and commentary—nothing but hard facts. Heavy losses were suffered, Ventress escaped but was presumed dead, Bant acted admirably as High Jedi General…

Obi-Wan’s empty chair was impossible to ignore.

He missed Obi-Wan so damn much it hurt.

A lump formed in his throat as soon as he finished speaking and he struggled to swallow it back down. He’d already cried once today, and his eyes felt sore and dry. Crying again, in front of the _Council_ , would be a bad idea.

Windu let out a breath and said, “Now that the formalities are out of the way—we have some new intel for you, Skywalker.”

His breath caught. “What is it?”

“We received a report from a Jedi stationed in the Yavin system a little over a month ago,” Windu said. “There was a disturbance in the Force there, originating from an ancient Sith temple on Yavin 4. Apparently, shortly after the disturbance, an unregistered ship left the moon’s atmosphere and headed towards Hutt Space,” Windu said. A month? Anakin opened his mouth, ready to demand why they were telling him _now_ if it had been important _then_. “We would’ve told you immediately,” Windu continued, and Anakin clamped his jaw shut. “But the knight stationed there requested time to investigate the disturbance, and we decided to keep our ears open for anything similar before taking action.”

Anakin’s mind started racing. Unregistered ship, snooping around in ancient temples, and spending time in places on the Outer Rim? That sounded like Obi-Wan—at least, sounded like something someone would do if they were trying to avoid being found by Jedi. With the amount of resources they were expending on the war, there was simply no way to have Jedi constantly on the Outer Rim territories.

He furrowed his brows, a thought striking him. “Wait. Did you say a _Sith_ temple?”

Master Yoda and Master Windu exchanged a glance, expressions unreadable.

“Yes,” Master Yoda said. “On Yavin 4, only Sith temples there are.”

Anakin snapped his mouth shut before he could say something stupid. A Sith temple. What the kriff was Obi-Wan thinking? Was he looking to be outright accused of turning? Of falling? What quicker way to get the Council to turn against him than to go causing disturbances at _Sith temples_?

“Knight Kiné reported no dark intent from the disturbance,” Master Mundi said, his tone gentle. “And there have been no further disturbances.” He granted Anakin a reassuring smile, and Anakin returned it with a strained one.

“But the Council’s still worried,” Anakin said.

“We know you care for your former master a lot,” Master Tiin said, “but we cannot disregard the possibility that he may fall. And if the worst comes to pass, he must be... neutralized.”

“I don’t believe he will,” Anakin said in a voice more confident than he felt. _Neutralized_. Anakin felt sick. How could Master Tiin _talk_ like that? Was Anakin just playing retrieval so they could interrogate Obi-Wan, then lock him up? Oh, Force, he was. They were manipulating him, weren’t they?

He had to calm down. The Council had not suggested such drastic things before, and a glance at some of the other Council members suggested they weren’t in favor of the idea, their concern and disagreement plain on their faces. And surely they knew better than to get Anakin to do this for them, didn’t they? Of course they did; they had to. If they truly wanted to harm Obi-Wan, they would’ve assigned someone else, someone less attached than Anakin.

“Have faith in him, you do, hm?” Yoda said, breaking Anakin out of his spiral.

“Yes,” Anakin answered without thinking, startling himself—but he realized, then, that it was the truth. He still believed in his friend, believed in his light, even when he’d turned his back on Anakin and left without goodbye. “Always.”

Yoda tapped his gimer stick on the floor, like Anakin’s reply had given him the final push to reach some decision. “No harm we will bring to Obi-Wan,” he declared. “Compassion and understanding we will extend to him, once returned he has, if return he chooses to. Act in defense only, we will. A threat, Obi-Wan has not yet become.” For once in his life, Anakin found himself agreeing with Yoda. To Anakin, the old master said, “Search for him on Tatooine, you will, with your Padawan.”

Anakin grimaced. “Tatooine?” He had no desire to go back to his home planet.

“We’ve been hearing rumors about slave transports on Mos Espa being diverted,” Windu said. He crossed his arms. “There’s been some chatter from the Hutts that we’ve managed to pick up in the past week—they’re not very happy about what’s happening.”

“You think Obi-Wan might have something to do with it?” Anakin asked, and Windu nodded. Anakin thought of his childhood, of his mother’s grave, of a Tusken village razed and long-buried by sand.

He suppressed a shudder and hoped no one on the Council noticed.

“Alright, I’ll go,” he said.

“Very good,” Windu said. “You’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

* * *

Mos Espa was as hot and dusty as Anakin remembered it to be. Tatooine’s two suns beat down on the duracrete floors of the spaceport mercilessly, waves of heat bouncing across the ground and distorting the buildings in the distance.

“Keep track of your belongings, Snips, if you don’t want them snatched,” he warned her as they disembarked from the ship, pulling ponchos over their heads. The heat was stifling, leaving a heavy weight on his lungs, and he could already feel sweat accumulating on his forehead. He wiped a hand across it and grimaced at the way the leather of his glove was already too warm.

He turned to R2, who had followed them out of the ship. “You stay here and make sure no one takes our only way off this sand heap, alright?”

R2 let out an affirmative beep and rolled back up the ramp.

Ahsoka put a hand over her eyes to shade them, looking out towards the town across the sand. “Why would Master Kenobi come _here_?” she asked. “Doesn’t seem like his kind of place.”

Anakin snorted and beckoned for her to follow him. “It isn’t. And he’s only ever been here once before.”

“Really? When?” Ahsoka asked.

“He, uh, crash landed here with his master during a mission,” Anakin said. Ahsoka didn’t need to know the finer details, and the whole event was a touchy subject—less for Obi-Wan than for Anakin, but touchy nevertheless. Anakin wasn’t about to share that aspect of his past with his Padawan.

“Huh,” Ahsoka said, accepting his answer and lack of elaboration. “I wonder why he would come back.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Anakin replied.

Well, Anakin had a few ideas, one of them correlating directly to the fact that Anakin had been a slave as a child. He wondered if that was part of Obi-Wan’s motivation, if he was even behind this at all. It was weird to think that his former master would, by Tatooine’s law, be considered a thief for whisking slaves away from their slave masters.

The slavers were the thieves; they were the ones stealing living beings in the first place.

Anakin and Ahsoka went to the markets first; Anakin knew that talking to the sellers would yield some information. A lot of them weren’t bad people—they just had the misfortune of living on Tatooine, trying to get by.

Anakin went from stall to stall, Ahsoka trailing behind him, as he asked about the rumors in Huttese. Most of the vendors had nothing to tell him other than that they’d heard about it. Some of them had greatly approved of the apparent vigilante’s actions, others didn’t, and most were indifferent—no surprise there.

They eventually found someone who seemed to know more about the situation—a red Weequay named Cayde selling smuggled ship parts. “Why do you care what is happening here on Tatooine?” he said when Anakin asked. “It is not like you off-worlders are going to do anything about it anyway. Besides, what are you planning to do, return the slaves to their former masters?”

Anakin scowled and grit his teeth, rage churning hot in his gut. Ahsoka tugged on his wrist.

Calm down, he told himself. The damn smuggler was just trying to rile him up. He needed to remain calm if he wanted to get any information.

“Not at all,” he said in a smooth voice. “We’re merely curious about who’s doing it.”

“I might be persuaded to tell you,” Cayde said, drumming his fingers against the table of his stall. “For a price.”

Anakin’s face contorted. He didn’t have time for this.

Whatever expression he made must’ve scared Cayde, because he backtracked. “Or I could do it for free. In fact, I will tell you right now!” He let out a nervous laugh.

“Start from the top, then,” Ahsoka said.

Cayde tapped a finger against his chin. “The first instance was two weeks ago, I believe. Some brothel owner—Kierek—was in the Podracer cantina, whining about it. He is in there every night, having too much to drink, so it was not new. The four Twi’lek children he had bought recently went missing, and the detonators for their trackers were gone too, he said. I thought it funny, since a mere week before he had been bragging to our new friend about obtaining them.” Cayde pulled a rag out and started wiping the light coat of sand that had accumulated on an engine block. “At first I thought, those children must have been very smart, to outwit him like that. But they had been _very_ young, apparently, too young to think of something so sly. Perhaps five or six cycles old.”

He turned to smirk at Anakin. “So, they must have had help, yes? But we all figured, ah, it must have been some jealous client of his that took the children for his own use and got the detonators while Kierek was stone drunk. Unfortunate, yes, but it happens all the time. Renton says careless people deserve to lose their investments, and I am inclined to agree. You see, I am very, very careful myself. That is why I never lose my goods.”

Anakin was doing his best not to seethe. He’d known a little about how the brothels operated, but he hadn’t realized they took them so young. They were being groomed from an early age, he knew. Conditioned to accept it. To think that children would be whisked away from there to be abused _earlier_ than even the brothels generally let them—it disgusted Anakin.

“Anyway,” Cayde continued, straightening up and looking over his stock. “None of us thought much of it, simply laughed at him.” He shook out the rag and sand fell from it. Cayde pursed his lips. “Then it started happening all over town. Every couple of nights, another slave child missing. The parents, if the master owned them, were questioned harshly. I know, because I saw Lakeli do it the other day. They’re very upset, you understand.”

Frankly, Anakin was glad they were getting so angry and frustrated. But he hated hearing about the parents getting punished. All he could think of was his own mother, suffering through strike after strike from a whip for his sake, for his mistakes, to protect him. She would’ve suffered any consequence if it meant he would be safe.

Ahsoka nudged him through their bond. Anakin blinked. Cayde was looking up at him, concerned, fearful. He’d backed up, displayed his hands in a non-violent gesture. Anakin realized there was sand everywhere—he did that in his anger with the Force, kriffing hell—and the engine Cayde had just cleaned was once again covered. “Sorry,” Anakin said, clearing his throat. “Please, continue.”

Cayde shuffled over, but he look ready to bail at any moment. “Jedi?” he asked, his voice strained, and he looked nervously at where Anakin’s hand was hovering by his hip, where his lightsaber was clipped.

“Yeah, we are,” Ahsoka said, glaring at Anakin. He could feel her thinking, ‘Good job, moron,’ at him. Anakin swallowed thickly and forced his hand down, curling his fingers into a fist.

Anakin really had to work on control before he ruined everything for himself.

“Promise not to toss sand all over my hard work if I say something else you do not like?” Cayde joked, but Anakin could hear his nervousness.

“Of course,” Anakin placated. “Sorry about that.”

Cayde cleared his throat and took the rag back to the newly dirtied engine, kneeling on the ground. “Where was I? Oh, yes. I think most of the parents were lying, when they said they did not know where their children had gone. And after the first week, it was not just children going missing either. Slave transports to Jabba’s palace have been getting diverted, all the slaves taken away, somewhere; where, no one knows. Only the guards ever die. Blaster wounds.” Cayde tapped his temple, indicating where.

Obi-Wan didn’t use a blaster. Perhaps Waxer, then, if the two of them were doing this?

“Has anyone been able to describe who’s doing all this?” Anakin asked.

Cayde made a noise that sounded vaguely like a ‘yes.’ “There are two of them, according to the slave transport guards that make it out alive,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “Both wear helmets, so no one knows their faces. But they say one must be a Jedi, like yourselves, because they carry a bronze lightsaber.”

“These vigilantes of yours, whoever they are, aren’t acting under the Jedi Order,” Ahsoka said, a thoughtful look on her face.

“So, not a Jedi,” Cayde said, squinting. “Then who?”

“We don’t know,” Anakin said. “But they’re not a Jedi.”

Cayde shrugged. “I suppose not. The Jedi, of course, are too busy waging war.”

“Well, thank you,” Anakin said, biting back a retort. He inclined his head. “We appreciate your willingness to share information for free.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cayde grumbled. “Always with the bleeding heart, I am. Do not expect it to happen again.”

Anakin grinned, tight and vicious. “I’ll make sure to have money on me next time.”

* * *

“He didn’t seem so bad,” Ahsoka said as they left the markets behind, trailing deeper into the town and pulling their hoods up.

“Don’t be fooled. He’s as scummy as the rest of them,” Anakin said. “Smugglers usually are, even if this one was helpful, and I don’t like that he knows we’re Jedi.”

“That’s hardly _my_ fault, Master. _You’re_ the one who used the Force in the middle of a market.”

“I got a little upset, is all,” Anakin said, defensive. “Anyone would, hearing what he said.”

“I _was_ upset,” Ahsoka said, pursing her lips. “But _I_ still didn’t reveal our identities to a total stranger.” After a beat, Ahsoka said, “Kinda seems like Cayde would fit in with Hondo’s gang, doesn’t he?”

Anakin laughed. “Yeah, actually. Though it doesn’t look like he’s into pillaging as much as they are.”

That got a snicker out of Ahsoka and Anakin was glad to hear it. He hadn’t seen or heard her be happy often since Obi-Wan left. There had been that one instance when Cody had cracked a joke—Cody, making _jokes_ —but he couldn’t think of a time after that. A dark cloud had settled over her—and him—dampening their moods and their outlooks.

Force, he was going to punch Obi-Wan when they found him, just for Ahsoka. He wasn’t yet sure if it’d be with his metal hand or not. It depended heavily on how bitter he felt.

“So what’s the plan?” Ahsoka asked.

“We stop by the cantina,” Anakin replied. “We can find out if there’s been anyone new around that might be linked to the rescues.”

“It was him, wasn’t it?” Ahsoka said, looking up at Anakin with a hopeful glint in her eyes. “It had to be Master Kenobi.”

Anakin worried his bottom lip. “It’s likely, but we can’t say for certain until we get more information. And the cantina’s the best place to find it.”

* * *

The Podracer cantina, as it had been affectionately called by Cayde, reeked of alcohol and had an underlying smell of vomit. Upon entering the oh-so-fine establishment, Ahsoka gagged and covered her mouth and nose with her hand.

“C’mon, Snips,” Anakin teased, resisting the urge to cover his own nose. “It’s not that bad.”

“You just—ugh—you don’t have a sense of smell, Skyguy,” she groused.

They went up to the counter and Anakin gestured to the bartender, a female Rodian. She narrowed her eyes and came over, greeting them in Basic. When Anakin returned the greeting in Huttese, she started, then stared at them. She glanced at their hips and then back at their faces.

After a pause, she said, “Not many Jedi know Huttese.”

“How do you know we’re Jedi?” Anakin asked.

She gestured towards the lightsabers hanging off their belts, just visible under their ponchos if one cared to look. “Those are a bit of a giveaway.”

Anakin frowned. Maybe they should’ve just left their lightsabers on the ship—but Anakin was loathe to be without a weapon on _Tatooine_.

“Do you want a drink?” she asked, then said, “Unless Jedi don’t drink.”

“No drinks for us,” Anakin said. “We are looking for information, though.”

“Have there been any new arrivals in town?” Ahsoka asked, leaning on the counter.

The bartender squinted at Ahsoka. “You’re too young to be in here,” she said instead of answering.

“She’s with me,” Anakin said, putting a hand on Ahsoka’s shoulder. “I don’t recall anyone on this planet giving a damn about drinking laws, either.”

The bartender muttered something to herself. She grabbed a cloudy glass and started cleaning it with a towel. Anakin didn’t think the glass was possible to clean—may have already been clean, in fact, and just permanently foggy.

“Some politician is visiting, a few new moisture farmers have moved in, and there’s two new smugglers in town,” she said, words dragging like she was making a monumental effort to tell them. “They spend most nights here. They’re both fairly quiet, but the others have taken a shine to them. To be fair, one of them is quite the charmer.”

“The new smugglers—when did they arrive in town?” Anakin asked. He had a good feeling about this.

“What’s it to you?” she responded, sounding annoyed.

“It’s Jedi business,” he answered, his jaw tightening. He hated dealing with anyone on this Force-forsaken planet. Not only was he going to punch Obi-Wan, he was going to toss sand down his robes for putting Anakin through this.

She looked over at Ahsoka. “You’re cute, so I’ll help,” she said. Ahsoka made a face, as did Anakin.

“Hey, step off, sleemo,” Anakin growled. “She’s barely fifteen.”

The bartender shrugged. “I’ve gone for younger.”

Maybe asking the bartender had been a bad idea.

“It’s fine, Master,” Ahsoka said. She directed her attention to the Rodian. “Can you tell us when these smugglers got to Mos Espa?”

She hummed. “Three weeks ago? Something like that.”

“What did the charmer look like?”

The bartender gestured to the top of her head. “Orange-y hair. He looked young. Had very blue eyes. He was very pale, too.”

“And his friend?”

“He had darker skin,” she said. “And no hair. A small bit of facial hair, though,” she said, pointing to the space under her lip. “Right there.”

Ahsoka turned to Anakin, face lighting up. “It sounds like them, Master. It has to be them.”

“Are they still around?” Anakin asked, trying not to betray his excitement. His fingers were gripping the edge of the counter so hard he was sure they were leaving dents in the wood.

“I don’t know,” the bartender said, sounding bored now. “They haven’t shown up for three days. Probably found work and left the planet, so they’ll be long gone by now.”

And just like that, Anakin’s heart sunk. They had been so close—Obi-Wan had _been here_ , there was no way it _hadn’t_ been him.

Anakin released his grip on the counter. “Thanks for the help,” Anakin said, and he and Ahsoka took their leave.

“We should see if we can ask some of the slaves,” Ahsoka said. “Any of the parents whose children went missing. They might be willing to talk to us since we’re Jedi.”

Anakin thought about it. “That’s not a bad idea, Snips. Good job.”

“Cayde mentioned someone called Lakeli,” she said. “We could start there.”

With a grunt of disgust, Anakin said, “From what it sounds like, they may not be pleasant to deal with.”

Ahsoka shrugged. “We gotta do it anyway, right? It’s not even just about Master Obi-Wan anymore. It’s about the children, too.”

She had a point. Anakin sighed. “Alright. Let’s find Lakeli.”

* * *

After asking around the town, they tracked down Lakeli to a moisture farm a few klicks out into the desert. Lakeli was a female Rodian like the bartender—but unlike the bartender, who, while blunt, had seemed nonaggressive, Lakeli had a temper as hot as Tatooine’s two suns combined. At least, that’s what the locals claimed.

It seemed that the claims weren’t unfounded, either. Upon seeing two strangers approach her moisture farm, Lakeli pulled out a heavy blaster and swore at them viciously in Huttese, uttering words Anakin would never, ever repeat to Ahsoka. There were simply some things young ears were never meant to hear.

“What’d she call us?” Ahsoka asked, scrunching up her nose.

“Nothing you need to know, Snips,” Anakin said, then put his hands up. “Stay behind me,” he ordered, then walked forward.

“ _We’re not here to hurt you_ ,” he said in Huttese. “ _We just want to ask some questions_.”

Lakeli growled and raised her blaster. “ _No,_ ” she snarled. “ _Off-world scum aren’t allowed here. All you do is steal my property. Come any closer and I’ll shoot_.”

“ _We’re here regarding your… property_ ,” Anakin said, wincing at the words coming out of his mouth—but this was business to her, and in order to get what he wanted, he had to treat it like business as well, much as he loathed it. Taking another slow step forward, he said, “ _We want to ask the parents of the missing children some questions._ ”

“ _E chu ta_ ,” she barked and fired her blaster. It was only a slight warning in the Force that allowed Anakin to pull out his lightsaber quickly enough to deflect the blast into the ground, where it melted the grains together into a glassy, black mess.

She fired a few more times and Anakin redirected the shots to her blaster; it flew from her hands, landing in the sand to her left, out of reach. Lakeli made to dive for it, but Anakin threw out a hand and she halted mid-air, floating in his Force grip. Her eyes were wide, terrified, and she strained and struggled to no avail. “ _Let me go!_ ” she screeched, her voice pitching up. “ _I’ll have your heads!_ ”

“For Force’s sake,” Ahsoka groaned, throwing her head back. “I’ll go find her slaves. You just—hold her here, Skyguy. We’re going to get nowhere if we try to reason with her.”

With a roll of his eyes, Anakin said, “Alright. Go, then. I’ll wait here.”

Ahsoka scurried off and Anakin idly stood around, still holding Lakeli with the Force. She stopped struggling and launched into a steady stream of vulgar cursing. Force, it’d been awhile since he heard someone use that many expletives. The Jedi were so proper, he didn’t think he’d ever heard someone say anything worse than ‘blast.’

“ _Y’know, it would’ve been a lot easier on all of us if you had just, I dunno, cooperated_ ,” Anakin said to her once the cursing died down. “ _I’m not a big fan of slave owners, and it’s only because I’d get in trouble that I haven’t killed you._ ”

Lakeli glared at him.

“ _But by all means_ ,” Anakin continued. “ _Give me a reason to kill you. I won’t feel bad about it_.”

Ahsoka chose that moment to return. “I got some answers, Skyguy.”

Anakin beamed at her. “You’re a miracle worker, y’know that, Snips?”

“Duh. Was there ever a question?” she smiled back.

Anakin released Lakeli and she fell to the sand with a grunt. He called her blaster to him and sliced it in half with his ‘saber.

“ _Hey!_ ” Lakeli shouted. “ _You better pay me for that, you piece of bantha shit!_ "

Anakin left the smoldering remains of the weapon in the sand. Scum like her didn’t deserve to be compensated for destroyed weaponry.

“Let’s go, Snips. You can tell me what you learned on the way back to the ship.”

* * *

They went back to their ship—relieved to find that it was still there—and though Anakin knew they’d learned a lot, it still felt like they’d gotten nowhere. They were still at square one with no further leads.

He settled into the pilot’s chair and R2 beeped at him. He patted the droid. “Nah, we didn’t run into trouble,” Anakin told him. “We found out quite a lot, though.”

The parents of the missing children had mentioned Alderaan.

Bail and Obi-Wan had always been good friends. Anakin could see why Obi-Wan would take the children there.

Not only did they have his next destination, they had confirmation that Obi-Wan had been on Tatooine freeing slaves, and that he had apparently acquired a new lightsaber with an unusual color.

He would have to ask the Council about that one or do his own research.

But research would take too long and he didn’t have the patience for it anyway.

Perhaps it was time he developed that patience.

The trip back to Coruscant was filled with an uneasy quiet as he ruminated on what had been discovered.


	7. Eriadu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose it's time shit started going down.
> 
> Warnings: death by drowning

“I’ve settled them all in their rooms for now,” Waxer said, sitting down at the dining room table with a mug of caf warming his hands. “The kids are all pretty scared, understandably, but one of them hugged me before I left the room, so I’d say it’s progress.”

Kenobi looked up from his bowl of cereal and blue milk. It was all they had left—other than ration bars, some fruit, and nuts—thanks to how many mouths they now had to feed. They really needed to resupply once they reached Alderaan. “I’m glad to hear that,” Kenobi said.

Waxer rubbed his fingers idly against the porcelain sides of his mug and gazed at the space over the countertop separating the dining room from the kitchen. “Why didn’t we stay and free more of them?” he asked.

Kenobi swallowed his mouthful of food. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Waxer shrugged and turned back to Kenobi. “I just thought, since we were on Tatooine and we were doing it anyway, why didn’t we just stay and free all the slaves in Mos Espa?”

Looking contemplative, Kenobi put down his spoon. He scratched the stubble along his jaw and stared at his cereal. “I suppose we could’ve. But what good would it have done?”

“What good?” Waxer frowned. “We would’ve freed all the slaves in that town. Started a revolt.”

“To what end?” Kenobi asked.

“What do you mean?”

Kenobi picked up his spoon again and started absently stirring the cereal around in his bowl. “We helped a few, yes. They were lucky. However, it was not our purpose there, nor was it our goal. In the end, that’s all it was for them—luck that we happened to be there and decided to do something for them. The lucky few.” He paused. Frowned. “But a town-wide revolt? It would work for a short time, maybe, if enough manage to avoid getting their heads blown off by their chips. After that? The Hutts would have sent in their army to crush them before they got anywhere.”

“We could’ve trained them how to fight. Shown them how to defend themselves,” Waxer argued.

“Idealistic, but not realistic,” Kenobi said with a sad sigh. “Even if we could’ve equipped every freed slave with a weapon, training them how to use the weapons effectively takes time. And the Hutts would never give us that time. They would respond immediately, then go elsewhere to crush any other hope of rebellion.” He set down his spoon again and steepled his fingers in front of his face. He glanced up, meeting Waxer’s eye. “No, all we would’ve done is led them to their deaths.”

Waxer scowled. He slumped back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, look at that, the great General Kenobi’s already got it all figured out, all the karking excuses in the galaxy.”

“I know it’s not nice to hear,” Kenobi said, and his tone went cold. “But it’s the truth. The beings we did take with us were spontaneous decisions, and the transports were diverted because of our search. We weren’t there for them, we were there for the holocron one of them had. To come in from the outside and spark revolt like that—it would have to be organized. We would need a plan. We would require the ability to give actual aid once we did help them become free. But we had none of those things. All we would have done is caused more harm than good, and we may have even caused harm by helping who we did.”

There was a pause. Quietly, voice raw with emotion, Kenobi said, “But I understand your anger. I really do.”

Waxer’s scowl softened. He’d been unfair. Kenobi was right, loathe as he was to admit it, and had Boil been sitting here with them, he would’ve agreed with Kenobi. They weren’t organized. They didn’t have the resources to lead a revolt. They certainly didn’t have the support to sustain an ongoing rebellion, and no one would come to their aid, not with a galactic-wide war going on.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to blame you, sir. I just… didn’t think it through.” Waxer worried his lip. “It was a foolish dream,” he admitted.

“Maybe so,” Kenobi said. “But perhaps someday in the future, when we’re done with all this running around the galaxy, we can go back and make it reality.”

* * *

Alderaan had been a short-lived visit. After finishing up business there, they continued their hunt for holocrons, planet-hopping and taking up the occasional job smuggling bacta to places that needed it along the way.

They stopped on the planet Eriadu not because Kenobi said they needed to, but because they desperately needed to refuel. Hunting down lost holocrons used a lot of fuel, as it so happened. Their current tally of holocrons was four, which was impressive considering they’d visited only ten planets on Kenobi’s frighteningly long list of over fifty, searching through the crumbling ruins of both Sith and Jedi temples.

One of those holocrons hadn’t even been retrieved from a temple. It had been around the neck of a newly captured slave on Tatooine, one they had rescued from one of the auction transports to Jabba the Hutt’s palace. As thanks, the now-former slave had given them the holocron.

They touched down in Phelar Port, the largest one on the planet. “Don’t leave the ship without your helmet on,” Kenobi warned. “If I remember correctly, the Jedi stationed a squadron of starfighters in Phelar Port before the war started, and there’s a very heavy Republic presence here.”

“Of course there is,” Waxer muttered.

The spaceport was a filthy place; trash littered the docks and oil stains shone on the permacrete floors. Waxer was thankful for the oxygen purifiers in his helmet the moment he stepped off the loading ramp, because the sky above them was almost brown. It was unbearably hot out, the dry heat cooking his skin. He found himself longing for Yavin 4 and its clean air.

“For kark’s sake,” Waxer said, and glanced to Kenobi. “Didn’t they get the memo about atmospheric scrubbers?”

Kenobi’s hand went up to his face to pull at a beard that wasn’t there, and his hand rubbed against the chin of his helmet instead. “Seems not. Eriadu has had longstanding problems with pollution. Let’s just get the fuel and get off this planet. I don’t want to spend too long here.”

Waxer went about getting the ship refueled, and Kenobi wandered off to Gods knew where. Kenobi didn’t reappear after Waxer had finished paying, and he found himself sighing and preparing to draw his blaster pistol from its holster. It was almost funny how used to this he was getting. It wasn’t like Kenobi couldn’t fend for himself—Waxer had seen evidence of that countless times on the battlefield. But sometimes—annoyingly—Kenobi went off and did things without Waxer’s knowledge. He would come back unscathed, but Waxer wished Kenobi would just _tell_ Waxer what he was doing, since it was usually some good deed that Waxer could’ve helped with.

For example: showing up at their accommodations in Mos Espa with four Twi’lek slave children in tow.

Waxer should’ve seen that one coming, honestly. And, of course, Waxer couldn’t say no to that particular mission; the little biters reminded him too much of Numa. So obviously he’d watched after the kids while Kenobi went around freeing others. Soon enough, they’d had about fifteen with them, and Waxer had found himself glad that their ship had been as big as it was.

That had, fortunately, been one of their more nonviolent ventures.

Other times, they ended up in a firefight, and Kenobi made a point not to use his new lightsaber unless necessary. Waxer couldn’t disagree with the decision; after all, a lightsaber was a beacon that exclaimed in all bold letters, “I’m a Jedi!” And even if Kenobi wasn’t one anymore (or so he insisted), a lightsaber would draw too much attention and surely bring the Order sprinting in.

If only the man would use a kriffing blaster. Then Waxer would worry a lot less.

He would give Kenobi ten minutes to return. If ten minutes went by and he didn’t come back, Waxer would go looking for him.

Of course, he waited for all ten minutes to pass before reappearing. “We’re not leaving the planet,” Kenobi announced.

Waxer closed his eyes and took in a controlled breath, glad that Kenobi couldn’t see his expression. There were Jedi stationed on this planet. Kenobi had to be joking. The Force hadn’t been saying anything earlier, so what changed? He let out the breath, and said, “Why?”

“Disaster relief,” Kenobi replied. With disdain, he continued, “Typhoons hit a few of the coastal towns about a week ago and they’re not being provided with any aid as the central government is focusing all their attention on becoming the Coruscant of the Outer Rim.”

“So we’re going to go help? How do you plan on doing that?” Waxer said.

“I suppose we’ll find out when we get there.”

* * *

They rented a speeder with hydro capabilities and took it out to the nearest afflicted coastal town. Kenobi, for whatever reason, offered to drive this time.

Waxer had never seen the damage a typhoon could cause before. All of Kamino’s buildings were essentially disaster proof and had been built to withstand the worst of storms, so it was safe to say he didn’t know what to expect.

What they found looked as though a small war had torn through the village. Buildings were in crumbles, the streets were flooded with sludge-like water that smelled of salt and smoke and gasoline, and piles of wet wood and brick sat where homes used to, though some of the structures—such as doorways and a wall or two—were still standing. Waste was everywhere—what may have once been a relatively livable area was now covered in garbage.

“The storms must have dragged it all in from a waste zone,” Kenobi murmured, eyes taking in the sight. He sounded pained.

They passed through to where they could see the tops of white tents set up far from the shore where ships had been moored on top of collapsed seaside homes. There were more bodies floating in the polluted water than Waxer cared to see—waterlogged and bloated, misshapen things with wet hair and clinging fabric, and the putrid scent of decay that their helmets’ air filters couldn’t block out.

All the bodies were human, and no age group had been spared; they ranged from what appeared to be children no older than nine cycles all the way to ancient souls that must’ve been more than eighty.

Waxer gagged on his own tongue when they passed by a drowned infant, still swaddled in blankets, its mouth open and water spilling from its lungs, its eyes bulging and leaking. It floated away towards the ocean, where it would be swallowed up by the foggy grey waters.

He turned away from it. Tried not to throw up.

He was glad, suddenly, that he wasn’t driving.

He couldn’t imagine what Kenobi must be feeling. The man had said nothing.

Waxer found himself wishing he could see Kenobi’s face, if just to be able to discern anything from him.

They arrived at the tents, posted up at the top of gently sloping hills, and Kenobi hopped out of the speeder onto dry land. Waxer followed him wordlessly as they entered the camp. The people were ragged and seemed to have shrunken in on themselves, a way of avoiding unwanted trouble. They looked dirty and tired and famished—lack of clean water and food would do that to a village, Waxer knew. He’d seen it enough times during the war. Their eyes—wary and uncertain and in some instances accusing—followed Waxer and Kenobi as they strode through to the center of the temporary site.

There was a cry somewhere to their right and Waxer halted, head swiveling towards the source of the sound. Under a propped up tarp was a woman. She was shushing an infant, turning away from Waxer, as though she was trying to hide her child from him, as though he was going to hurt it. In response, the child only cried louder.

Kenobi had stopped as well. He raised a hand, hesitant, and deactivated his helmet, the metal folding away into the band.

Waxer did the same.

Kenobi approached the woman and infant, and the woman glared at him, suspicious. “I’m not going to hurt the child,” Kenobi said in a gentle voice, one Waxer remembered from when he’d talked to Numa, before he knelt onto the damp grass in front of the woman. Now that Waxer was closer, he could see that it wasn’t a woman, but a little girl with black hair who couldn’t be more than ten, clutching a baby to her chest, the dirt streaks on her face making her look older. “Is he your brother?” Kenobi asked.

The girl started and gave a jerky nod.

Kenobi reached out slowly to the infant and the girl let him. He rested a hand on the crying child’s head and closed his eyes. The child calmed and the crying died down to wet sniffles, then to soft snores. When Kenobi opened his eyes again, they were filled with sorrow. “He’s very sick,” he murmured. “I’ve relieved some of his pain for now, but it will come back. How long has he been sick?”

The girl sucked on her lower lip and cast her eyes to the ground. “A week,” she answered in an accent that reminded Waxer of the Core worlds. Then she said, “You took away his pain? How? Are you a wizard?”

The corners of Kenobi’s lips twitched up slightly. It was strange to see the motion without a beard.

“No, I’m not a wizard,” Kenobi said. Then he leaned forward, his smile growing playful, and he said in a hushed voice, as though he were divulging a secret, “I’m a Jedi.”

Waxer stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Kenobi kept insisting he wasn’t one anymore but—these people, they needed hope, and that’s what Jedi provided, even while they were out waging wars.

Hope was such a precious commodity these days.

The girl’s eyes widened. “So you _are_ a wizard!” she exclaimed in a whisper. She looked between the two of them. “Are you a wizard too?” she asked Waxer.

Waxer shook his head. “No, miss, I’m not. I’m this wizard’s loyal helper.”

“That makes sense,” she said, nodding sagely. “Wizards need help too.”

Waxer clamped a hand over his mouth to stop from guffawing. If only she knew the extent of it.

The little girl shifted her brother in her arms, ran a hand over the top of his head. “Are you here to help us?” she asked.

“Yes,” Kenobi said. “Can you answer some questions for me? That way I can help everyone better than I could otherwise.”

“Of course,” the girl said.

“How long ago did the storm hit?” he asked.

The girl’s expression darkened. “Three weeks ago.”

Waxer’s chest tightened—though whether it was in anger or grief he didn’t know. He knelt down beside Kenobi and asked, “What’re your names?”

“My name is Avnee,” she said. “My brother is Samaan.”

“How old are you?”

“Eight,” she said. “Samaan is only eight months.”

Waxer’s throat closed up. Gods, they were so young. “Your parents?” he asked.

Tears welled up in Avnee’s eyes and she looked down at the ground again, shaking her head.

That answered that question.

“Avnee,” Kenobi said, and she glanced up from under her fringe. “Who’s in charge here? I would like to speak to them.”

“Mister Patel takes care of everyone in the village,” she said. “He tries to, anyway, but the cities stopped sending food and water and medicine a week ago, even though we still need it.”

“Where can I find him?”

She pointed up the makeshift street. “He’s walking around. He has a turban and a big, black, curly beard,” she said.

Kenobi nodded. “I will go speak to him.” He stood, wrapping his cloak tighter around himself despite the muggy heat. “Waxer, stay with Avnee and her brother.”

Waxer blinked. “What? Why?”

“Because it’ll be good for you,” he said. “And because I would rather they weren’t alone. I’ll be back shortly.”

He hurried off towards the center of the tents and soon disappeared from sight. Waxer stayed awkwardly kneeling for a few moments more, his knees getting wetter with each passing second. He gestured to the spot next to Avnee. “May I sit?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, and scooted over to make room for him under the crude shelter.

He ducked under the tarp and settled himself on the dry ground. He stared out at the path he and Kenobi had been walking earlier. It was a worn dirt road, and he suspected it only existed because this was not the first time the village had found themselves here, without homes and without resources. “Is this the first time you’ve experienced a big storm?” he asked Avnee, glancing down at her.

“Mhm,” she hummed. Her brother began snuffling again, and she started to rock him.

“I can hold your brother, if you’d like,” Waxer offered, and her grip on Samaan tightened as she scrutinized Waxer with her gaze.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I know I don’t look it, but I’m pretty good with little biters of all sizes, even his. Our wizard wouldn’t have told me to stay if he didn’t think I was,” Waxer told her, and it brought a timid smile to her face.

“What do you mean by ‘little biters’?” she asked.

“I mean rascals,” he said, nudging her. “Like you.”

“I’m not a rascal,” she argued, and she held out the bundle of human infant to him. “You can hold him. Just don’t drop him.”

“I promise I won’t,” Waxer said, gathering Samaan in his arms and cradling him gently. Samaan’s eyes fluttered and he raised his fists to rub at them clumsily.

Waxer was a soldier, a killer by blood, trained to fight. He helped people by being willing to die for them, by killing for them. He didn’t stick around to provide relief or aid; once the combat was over, his job was done, and it was on to the next battle. It was the job of others to help, to rebuild. He had no business being here, rocking this little boy with one arm, hushing him as he started to wake and open his pink, toothless mouth to wail. He had no _right_ to be here, he thought, as Avnee pressed her shivering form against his side and he wrapped his other arm around her thin shoulders, holding her close as she started to cry from stress, from grief. This wasn’t what he was made to do.

He’d _abandoned_ what he was made to do. He wasn’t honorable. He’d betrayed his brothers, betrayed the Republic, betrayed the Jedi. There was only one person in existence he knew he hadn’t betrayed, and that was the man he had left with, the one he’d followed with the conviction that no matter what happened, he wouldn’t leave that man’s side for any reason other than death.

He was a killer. The Kaminoans had made him one. His Mandalorian heritage made him one. He was a warrior, like his brothers, like the man who gave his genes to make him.

But maybe, he thought. Just maybe—

Maybe the Kaminoans had been wrong.

Maybe he didn’t have to be a killer. Numa had shown him that, first. And Kenobi had once again reminded him of that, whisking him away on this strange journey of his.

He didn’t have to destroy. He could build. He didn’t have to kill. He could help other people live.

“I miss Mum and Dad,” Avnee sobbed into his shirt.

Waxer gathered her into his lap and rubbed her back through her thin dress. “I know,” he said, thinking of Boil, who was not dead nor alone but had been abandoned, because Waxer had deserted him. He wondered if Boil had cried, had mourned the brother that had left him behind, or if he’d scorned and cursed Waxer’s name. “I know. It’s okay to miss them. It’s okay to cry.”

Avnee cried and Samaan cried as well, and Waxer felt strangely at ease to have two weeping children in his arms. This wasn’t his area of expertise; he was sure Kenobi could handle it better than he was.

But he was needed, and he wanted to help.

That was enough for him.

He rocked Samaan and murmured gentle reassurances to Avnee. “I’m here,” he said. “I’ve got you. I won’t let anything bad happen to you or your brother while I’m here. You’ve been so strong. You’re _still_ strong. Your parents would be proud.”

Avnee sobbed herself into a fretful sleep and Samaan eventually quieted down as well. Waxer pressed the back of his hand to the boy’s forehead. His skin was too hot. He was probably hungry too. Waxer felt powerless to help.

He sighed and settled Avnee against his chest. He readjusted his grip on Samaan and fit him into the crook of his arm.

Kenobi returned a few minutes later. Upon seeing Waxer, his eyes lit up. “I see that you’ve handled the situation admirably,” he said, sounding pleased. He switched gears almost instantly, his expression becoming serious. “I’ll be going back into town to pick up supplies for the village. Would you like to join me, or would you rather stay here?”

“You better not get a weird message from the Force and leave without me if I stay,” Waxer joked.

Kenobi chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I don’t mind not going, then,” Waxer said with a small shrug, careful not to jostle the sleeping children in his arms. “I’m kind of busy, anyway.”

“I can see that,” Kenobi said. There was a twinkle in his eyes. Waxer thought he recognized it from how Kenobi looked at both General Skywalker and Commander Tano—pride, Waxer realized. Kenobi was proud of him.

It felt nice, to have someone be proud of him. Boil had been proud of him—always had been. Waxer looked down at the children sleeping in his arms. He wondered how Boil was—if he was okay, if he was still angry at Waxer for leaving. Waxer wondered if Boil was still alive. Gods, he shouldn’t think like that—of course Boil was still alive. He had to be. It wouldn’t be right if he wasn’t. Boil was a better fighter, a better soldier. He’d make it through the war. He _had_ to. After all, had it not been for Boil, Waxer would’ve been dead long ago. Boil had always looked out for him. Waxer had thought he would always be around to.

But he wasn’t, now, because Waxer had left him.

Waxer missed Boil so much. Sometimes he forgot Boil wasn’t even by his side anymore.

“Expect me back in a few hours, then,” Kenobi said, turning away.

“See you then, vod,” Waxer said.

Kenobi froze. He glanced back at Waxer, brows furrowed. Waxer felt his gaze and looked up. He saw Kenobi frowning.

“Something wrong, sir?” Waxer asked.

Kenobi’s eyes darted away. “No, it’s nothing. See you in a bit,” he said, then hurried off.

Waxer wondered what he’d said wrong.

* * *

When Kenobi returned with an even bigger speeder saddled with packages, he stopped by Avnee’s poorly constructed shelter first, taking a wriggling Samaan from Waxer and giving him something for his illness. “With proper care, Force willing, he’ll recover his strength and pull through,” Kenobi said, passing Samaan back to Waxer. “You hold him for now.”

Avnee had woken up by then, watching the proceedings. Kenobi knelt down on one knee in front of her and asked, “Would you like to help me pass out food and medicine?”

She jumped up, an ecstatic and vigorous, “Yes!” erupting from her lips, and she grabbed Kenobi’s hand, tugging him to his feet. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

Waxer trailed after the duo. “Look at the two of them,” he said to Samaan. “Full of energy, aren’t they? Haven’t seen Kenobi smile that big in a while. Can’t imagine your big sister has done much of it either recently.”

Samaan gurgled in response. Waxer bounced the child in his arms. Up ahead, he could already see Avnee trying to carry more packages of ration bars than she could fit in her arms. Kenobi crouched down beside her and made a show of looking around for anyone that may be watching them, then used the Force to lift a few packages from the top of her pile into the air. Avnee squawked with delight. “How are you doing that?” she laughed.

“I’m using the Force,” Kenobi replied, a mischievous grin dancing across his lips.

“Can you teach me?” Avnee asked. “I want to lift things with the Force too.”

Kenobi hummed. “It would take too long to teach you to lift boxes, so you’ll just have to carry them,” he said, and she pouted and tapped his boot with her foot.

“You have to carry them like me,” she declared, pushing her chin out, proud. Gone was the shy little girl that had feared for her brother’s life. It seemed she had put her trust into the pair of them, perhaps even considered them friends after such a short time.

Children, Waxer found, trusted so easily when shown kindness after tragedy, and he was glad that Kenobi would never take advantage of what was so freely given. He enjoyed seeing the person Avnee was when she wasn’t fearful.

“Why do I have to carry them like you?” Kenobi asked in his most reasonable voice. “Surely I should use all my skills.”

Avnee thought about it, her eyebrows pinching together, then shook her head. “That’s not fair,” she decided.

“How so?” Kenobi probed.

“It’s cheating,” she announced.

“I wasn’t aware this was a competition,” Kenobi said dryly, but he was still smiling.

Avnee puffed out her cheeks. “It’s not. But you’d still be cheating.”

Kenobi laughed and laid a hand on her head. “The mind of a child truly is delightful.”

They got to work after that, and Kenobi made it an _actual_ game for Avnee, and when they came across other children, they invited them to play as well. Soon enough, children of all ages were darting around the temporary camp, handing out food and water and medicine, keeping tally of each item they distributed, all trying to have the highest number. There wasn’t any prize, but it seemed the children wanted the gloating rights of having done the best job helping a Jedi.

Waxer stayed by the speeder, Samaan in one arm, and handed packages to kids that returned for more to give away. He marveled at how _good_ Kenobi was with the little ones. He radiated a kind of calm and serenity that Waxer hadn’t seen in ages—

In fact, Waxer didn’t think he’d ever seen Kenobi so happy. He’d only ever known the Jedi War General, who always looked tired around the eyes. This man, who played games with children and showed such kindness and endless patience, who was delighted with everything they did—this was what Waxer imagined the Jedi were supposed to be.

Clones were made for war, for battle, for death. Jedi were made for peace, for harmony, for life.

Kenobi, from what Waxer had seen, was made for both.

Soon enough, all the supplies had been distributed, and Kenobi led his small herd of children back to the speeder for a reward. From a small bag he produced tiny sweets wrapped in shimmering paper. “Thank you all for your help,” he told them. “What you’ve done today is admirable, and I’m proud of your efforts.” And one by one they wandered off, sucking on fruit-flavored candies.

Kenobi tucked three into Avnee’s hands and then hefted her up onto his shoulders. She folded her arms over the top of his head and balanced herself, then fiddled with the wrapper of one of the candies.

“We’re a bit short on credits now,” Kenobi said. “We may have to take the odd job here or there. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course it is,” Waxer said. “So, what’s the plan now? This was obviously only a temporary fix. These people still need aid.”

“I have a plan,” Kenobi said. “Though I need to discuss it with Abaad.”

“Abaad?”

“Mister Patel,” Avnee chirped.

“And what, exactly, does this plan of yours entail?” Waxer asked, already fearing the answer.

Kenobi glanced at Samaan in Waxer’s arms, then absently rubbed Avnee’s ankle with his thumb. “I suppose you’ll find out when I tell Abaad about it,” Kenobi replied. The expression accompanying his answer didn’t make Waxer feel better.

* * *

Kenobi’s plan didn’t sit well with Waxer.

It was likely because it involved using Avnee and Samaan as tools of persuasion.

It wasn’t that Waxer didn’t _trust_ Kenobi to keep the two kids safe…

No, it wasn’t that at all. Waxer didn’t trust the government officials. The village was evidence enough of a corrupt system unwilling to help its people to the point that two outsiders had to come in and buy a day’s worth of supplies for more than three hundred people. Even the Jedi stationed on planet hadn’t helped, though Waxer suspected it was because their assignment was military, not humanitarian, and they were preoccupied with whatever their assignment _was_. Too preoccupied, it seemed, to pay attention to the planet’s local happenings. Or maybe it was Eriadu’s politicians themselves, tying the Jedi’s hands together.

Still, it surely couldn’t have been that much effort or funding for Eriadu’s government to provide aid. The village wasn’t big, after all, and sure, there were many villages like this one, but the planet was huge, and it seemed to have plenty of money to throw away towards making sprawling urban cityscapes.

But it seemed Kenobi’s negotiation skills needed to be put into play, and he was willing to do anything for this little village they had stumbled upon. So Waxer found himself piloting their ship towards Eriadu City the next morning with Kenobi, Abaad, Avnee, and Samaan. Abaad remained in the dining area with Samaan, while Kenobi sat in the co-pilot’s seat with Avnee on his lap, showing her all the different controls and telling her what each button did.

She was a bright one. If given the right opportunities, she’d go far in her life.

They touched down in the capital city sometime after lunch, and Kenobi led their little group to a quaint café outside the spaceport to eat. Kenobi and Abaad discussed strategy in hushed voices and Waxer didn’t bother to pretend to understand the complicated mess that was Eriadu’s politics. It seemed Abaad was giving Kenobi the rundown of what to expect from the planet’s governor.

Abaad, while grateful, didn’t think Kenobi would be able to get them a conference. Waxer had no doubt that he would get them one anyway.

Kenobi was a cunning man, after all, and a talented Jedi—well, former Jedi. And with his mind _this_ set on achieving an outcome for a group of people, he’d do what he needed to in order to obtain his goal.

It was admirable.

And a bit scary.

Well, Kenobi had always been scary, despite his quiet demeanor. There was an intensity that always lingered under the surface—something Waxer had only ever seen in battle. But then again, he supposed this _was_ a battle. It just didn’t take place on the battlefield; instead, it took place in an office, and instead of blasters, they used words.

Their pleasant lunch ended and Abaad led them to the governor’s palace in the center of the city.

Of course, Kenobi didn’t have to do much at all. All he had to do was say he was a Jedi Knight and make up a name, or use a name less famous than his own. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t wearing Jedi robes—the cloak and the lightsaber hanging off his belt were enough to support his story. Waxer couldn’t say he’d heard of anyone named Garen Vos, but it convinced the receptionist at the desk to comm the governor and get them a meeting.

Waxer was forced to wait outside, on account of him being neither a Jedi nor a representative of a village. So he watched as Kenobi held Samaan and took Avnee’s hand, then walked into the office with Abaad at his side. Waxer sat alone outside the governor’s office, wishing he had his blaster, which he’d been forced to leave with the guards downstairs.

Hours passed. Waxer got up to pace, then sat down again. He messed with his helmet, absently activating and deactivating it out of boredom. He thought about his brothers and the other Jedi, went through the various stages of self-loathing and self-assurance in the span of minutes, then repeated the process a few more times. He’d forgotten how long politicians could go on talking. He didn’t envy Kenobi in the slightest, if this was what he did all the time when he wasn’t on the front lines. Waxer decided he would stick to blasters and shooting droids, Kenobi could do all the talking he damn well pleased as long as he left Waxer out of it.

Eventually, Kenobi and Abaad emerged with the children. Waxer’s shoulders sagged in relief when he caught sight of Abaad’s grinning face and Kenobi’s smug yet subdued one. They had been successful.

“So, what’s the situation?” Waxer asked as they headed out of the building, grabbing his blaster pistol from the security desk as they went. Avnee slipped her hand into his and skipped as they walked. Samaan was sound asleep in Abaad’s arms.

“The governor has politely agreed to supply disaster relief to all areas affected by typhoons. I’ve also convinced him to draft bills for permanent relief efforts in instances of repeat occurrences,” Kenobi said. “It’s quite amazing how willing a politician can be to do what you want when you point out the inevitable collapse of their economic system and the eventual uprisings that would occur to uproot his power.”

“Please don’t elaborate on anything that went on in that office,” Waxer said, rolling his eyes. “You’ll put me in a coma.”

“Very well,” Kenobi replied, biting his lower lip in an attempt to hold back his smile. His stance was one of reserved but upbeat confidence. His entire demeanor had changed and he seemed lighter than he had been in a long time. Waxer supposed that was as close as a Jedi Master got to being ecstatic about a job well done.

“Master Vos conducted himself marvelously,” Abaad said, his admiration evident in his tone. “It was a joy to watch him work.”

“Thank you,” Kenobi said. “But I believe that it was your argument that convinced the governor in the end. I was merely there to provide the extra push needed. I’m afraid the threat of a potential Senate-approved investigation can only last so long.”

“Ah, the Jedi are so humble,” Abaad said. “If this is what you’re all like when you’re not at war, then I hope the war ends very soon. There are so many others like my village that could use a Jedi’s help.”

Kenobi smiled tightly. “Indeed. It is unfortunate that our principles and directive have been so strongly compromised. Force willing, the Jedi will soon be able to refocus their efforts.”

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the spaceport, Avnee occasionally tugging on Waxer’s hand and pointing something out to him that caught her attention. They boarded the _Absolution_ and Waxer once more took the pilot’s seat, Kenobi next to him with Avnee on his lap, and Abaad with Samaan in the back.

As they flew, Avnee drifted off, curled up against Kenobi’s chest, breathing softly. Kenobi looked out the viewport towards the ground, watching it pass below them.

“So, what’s the plan for us?” Waxer asked, breaking the silence.

“We go back to the village and help rebuild,” Kenobi said, his voice sounding strange. It was distant like it had been that night on the _Negotiator_ when Kenobi had asked Waxer to leave with him, unable to say why. “I’ve offered our continued assistance to Abaad and his people.”

Waxer narrowed his eyes. “That’s not all, is it? There’s something else.”

Kenobi cast him a sidelong glance. “Whatever do you mean?” he asked in an innocent tone.

“I’ve been on this little adventure with you long enough to know when you’re holding something back, sir,” Waxer pointed out.

Kenobi sighed, conceding. “There’s something off with the Force here. I sensed it at the village, and I sense it now, in the capital. I can’t pinpoint the exact location, but the turbulence in the Force got stronger as we flew over a certain part of the planet,” he explained. “We’ll still be helping the villagers, but I’ll also be conducting an independent investigation.”

“What do you think you’ll find?”

“It’s hard to say,” Kenobi admitted. “I don’t want to find anything. Whatever it is, it’s dark—overwhelmingly so.”

That didn’t sound great. Waxer’s interactions with darksiders had been nonexistent up to this point. He had no desire to break that streak. Clones tended not to survive when faced with a darksider. “Of course,” Waxer groaned, running a hand down his face. “We can’t just do simple disaster relief. We’ve gotta go kriffin’ _Sith hunting_ too.”

One corner of Kenobi’s mouth quirked up. “I never said anything about Sith.”

“Knowing you, that’s what we’ll end up finding,” Waxer grumbled.

Kenobi merely shrugged.


	8. Course Correction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter may be slightly delayed due to a return to classes.

“Master Windu!” Anakin called out, jogging after the other man.

Windu stopped walking and turned to glance over his shoulder. Anakin caught up to him. “Skywalker,” Windu greeted. He gestured for Anakin to walk with him. Anakin fell into step beside him as they headed down the hall towards the turbolift. “Be brief. I’m on my way to the Senate building. What do you need?”

“Why was I denied permission to go to Alderaan?” Anakin asked. “I explained in the request that it was relevant to my investigation of Obi-Wan’s whereabouts, and that I’m closing in on his trail. If I don’t go now, I may lose it again entirely—”

“Skywalker, the Council has told you that we cannot make the search for Kenobi a priority,” Windu said, sounding exasperated. “The war must come first. Have you received your next assignment yet?”

“Well, no,” Anakin said. “But I’m onto something, Master Windu, I just need a little more time. Can’t you talk to the Council about it? I know I’m close.”

“As much as I would like to just so you’ll stop _asking_ ,” Windu sighed, “we’re in no position to change your assignment. I won’t even be present at your briefing. The situation is pressing, and as soon as you’re briefed, you’ll understand why. I’d deal with it myself, but Kenobi’s departure has left me in a precarious spot with the Senate. The rest of the Council is unavailable and there are no other knights we believe are up to the task, which means you’re our only option at the moment.”

“Why don’t you send someone else to the Senate?” Anakin asked. “Surely there’s someone available.”

“Tell me, Skywalker,” Windu said, “how you think the Senate will interpret such an action.”

Anakin shrugged. “They’ll think you’re too busy to see them?”

“They’ll think I’m brushing them off,” Windu said, glancing at Anakin. “They’ll think I don’t consider them important enough to warrant my full attention if I send another Jedi in my place, regardless of who it is. They’ll interpret it as us lacking respect for their authority.”

“But we do respect them—well, enough of them,” Anakin said. “And we have the utmost respect for the Chancellor. Surely that’s obvious.”

“It doesn’t matter what is _obvious_ , as you put it,” Windu replied. “What matters is how they interpret our actions. With tensions running this high, any misstep we make will be used against us. Anything we say or do will have its intentions or meaning twisted somehow.”

They entered the turbolift and Windu turned to face Anakin. “I haven’t left Coruscant since Kenobi did, Skywalker, because I’m busy dealing with the public fallout of Kenobi’s departure. We’ve kept you shielded from the press and the Senate as best we can because the _last_ thing we want is for you to be continuously hassled about how you feel about him leaving, just so the news can broadcast it for the entire damn _Republic_ to hear. Force knows _I’m_ sick of being hounded by reporters at the entrance to the Senate building. At least the guards keep them from gathering in the Temple.”

Anakin blinked. This was the most Windu had ever said to him in one sitting that wasn’t outright berating him. What was even going on?

Windu sighed again, and he turned away to face the turbolift doors, pinching the bridge of his nose. Windu looked tired—no, _exhausted_. Wrinkles more prominent along his forehead and at the corners of his eyes, mouth turned down in a small frown, shoulders sagging ever so slightly.

Even the great Master Windu was flagging due to the pressure of the war.

“The Senate has us on a tight leash right now, Skywalker,” Windu continued, and his voice sounded strained, heavy. He folded his hands behind his back and rolled his shoulders. He looked poised, professional—the minor evidence of his momentary weakness was gone. “They’re demanding to know how we plan to fill Kenobi’s spot, and whether or not we’ll succeed. The public is frightened, if you haven’t noticed. Kenobi was a celebrity as much as you are. Now the public—and the Senate—are doubting our commitment to the war, and the amount of scrutiny placed on us has increased tenfold. So we can’t give them any reason to doubt us, and that means not letting them think we’re wasting resources—even our _own_ —on searching for someone who has left us.”

“But the Order has done nothing but fight for the Republic,” Anakin said, frowning. “They called on us to fight in this war, and we did it without complaint. We’ve been committed since day one. There’s no reason for them to doubt our commitment _now_. Why would one person’s actions change their faith in us?”

“It only ever takes one, Skywalker,” Windu said. The turbolift came to a stop and the doors opened to the hangar. Windu stepped out. Anakin followed, though he slowed as Windu approached a speeder set aside for him. “It only ever takes one.”

Master Windu seemed preoccupied by something else. He was snappish, but he wasn’t scolding and he wasn’t brushing Anakin off like he normally did. He stopped walking, watching Windu get farther from him, furrowing his brows.

Then he remembered. He wanted to smack himself for being so inconsiderate—

“Master Windu?” Anakin called out.

Windu stopped. Adjusted his stance to glance over his shoulder at Anakin, brows raised in a silent question.

“I’m sorry,” Anakin said. “I heard what happened to Master Billaba. I know she was your Padawan.” He paused. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like. If something like that happened to Ahsoka—” Anakin cut himself off. He didn’t want to imagine it. It hurt too much to do so.

Windu looked at the ground. Anakin couldn’t read his expression. “While I appreciate the sentiment, Anakin,” he said, “there’s nothing left to be said of the matter.”

He climbed into the speeder and took off. Feeling guilt lodge itself in his gut, Anakin watched him go.

* * *

The Council was mostly absent—Adi Gallia and Eeth Koth were there in person around the table in the war room, while the rest were present in the form of projections being broadcasted from their respective flagships.

Anakin soon understood why he couldn’t go to Alderaan, as much as he wanted to. There had been a massacre on Devaron and no survivors. Both the Jedi and Padawan stationed there had been brutally slaughtered alongside their clones, and the evidence showed it had been death by lightsaber.

It wasn’t Ventress’s work, nor was it Grievous’s, which meant Dooku had a new apprentice—Anakin had seen as much in the holorecording they’d shown him of Master Halsey’s death.

Another body to add to the list of Jedi murdered by the new assassin’s hand. Anakin felt sick. Jedi were already dying left and right, their lights in the Force going out like candles being snuffed. They couldn’t let the creature in the holorecording continue to run rampant.

So they were being sent to Dathomir to uncover the creature’s origins. Distantly, Anakin remembered a Sith apprentice, red skin and black markings, horns on his head, standing cloaked before a Master and apprentice in the hangars of Naboo’s palace. Same species, he realized, and he was glad, suddenly, that Obi-Wan wasn’t there to be assigned to this mission.

Bant was to accompany him. She stood at his side during the briefing, and Anakin noted that she looked haggard, exhausted in a way that reminded him of how Obi-Wan often looked—and it hit him then how long it had been since Anakin had seen Obi-Wan look anything other than dead on his feet. He’d hidden it well, as Bant was doing, but someone could only hide it for so long.

He turned his attention back to Master Mundi, who was giving them the rundown of the situation, but his mind wandered once more. Anakin wished he could be in the Archives instead, researching. The thought almost made him laugh. Force, if the Council ever heard that, they’d lock him up with the Healers, convinced he’d caught some sort of disease. Obi-Wan probably would’ve asked what he’d done with the real Anakin.

His jaw clenched. Thinking of Obi-Wan made his chest ache. He forced himself to tune back into the meeting, and despite the presence of Obi-Wan in his thoughts, he managed to stay focused.

At the end of their briefing, Bant spoke up. “I have a request for the Council,” she said.

Mundi inclined his head, giving permission to continue.

Bant paused, looked to be choosing her words. “I am unable to bear the burden of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s former position on my own,” she said, bowing her head, as though she was ashamed. “In all honesty, Masters, I am unsure how he carried on like this for so long. It is far too much for any one being to do alone. I would like to request additional help, so that some of the responsibilities may be spread out among more Jedi, or even have some clones promoted in order to aid with the workload.”

Anakin blinked. Then he got angry at himself, thoughts of Obi-Wan flooding back into the front of his mind. He wanted to smack his head against the wall for being so unobservant. Of _course_ Obi-Wan had been tired. His responsibilities in the war had been more than any other Jedi—the man had been in charge of his own Third Systems Army and coordinated the Systems Armies of two other High Jedi Generals. And Bant had inherited all that responsibility. No kriffing wonder she looked so worn out.

Mundi sighed. “I was afraid this may happen. We will see what can be done, but I cannot promise it will get done quickly, if at all.”

“Wait, why didn’t you just do this from the start, when Obi-Wan was still here?” Anakin asked, almost unable to believe what he was hearing. “All these responsibilities—he was being overworked, Masters. The stress had to have been too much. He must’ve had a mental break and it made him leave.”

Master Gallia cast him a stern look. “While we appreciate your concerns about that _now_ , Knight Skywalker, the fact of the matter was that Kenobi was more qualified than any other Jedi to lead that much of the army. Commander Cody aided him with most, if not all, of his duties. Given Kenobi’s past experiences with war, he willingly took on the responsibilities given to him, especially at the Chancellor’s request.”

Anakin scrunched up his nose. “What past experiences with war?” And the Chancellor had been requesting Obi-Wan specifically? Why had he never told Anakin?

Mundi exchanged a carefully blank glance with Yoda. Anakin looked to Bant, whose expression was pitying. “Oh, Anakin,” she said quietly. “He never told you, did he.” A statement, not a question. Like she’d expected it, but had hoped the opposite was true.

How much had Obi-Wan kept from him? How much did he not know?

“I expect Master Eerin will explain everything you need to hear,” Mundi said, sounding weary. “You’re both dismissed.”

Anakin bowed stiffly and followed Bant out. The moment the war room doors closed behind them, he hurried to her side. “Obi-Wan fought in wars before this?” he asked.

She let out a huff. “I know you were distracted during the briefing,” she said. “Perhaps you’d better go take care of whatever was on your mind first. We’ll be leaving in a couple hours. There will be plenty of time to talk while we’re en route to Dathomir.”

Anakin wanted to argue, to demand that she explain everything he wanted to know right then—but he was annoyed to find that she was right. He still wanted to look at the Archives, and he needed to check on Ahsoka, make sure she was aware that she was to catch up with her coursework while he was gone. “Right,” he said in a flat tone. “I'll see you then, Master Eerin.” With that, he took off in the direction of his quarters.

A quick conversation with Ahsoka had the two of them hurrying down the halls to the Archives.

Madame Nu arched a brow at them as they rushed in. She opted not to comment on their unusual presence, instead returning her attention to the Padawan learner she was helping. Anakin slipped into a chair at a console and keyed in his information. “Okay, so we’re looking for anything the Archives have on a bronze lightsaber,” he said, typing the words ‘bronze lightsaber’ into the search bar.

Ahsoka nodded. “I’ll go see if Madame Nu might know anything the computers won’t find,” she said, and disappeared from Anakin’s side.

Anakin scanned through the listed documents where ‘bronze’ and ‘lightsaber’ were marked, as well as combinations. Sifting through all the irrelevant records would take forever—the Archives had far too many articles with the word ‘lightsaber’ contained, let alone those with ‘bronze.’ “Kriffin hell,” he muttered. “I forgot how awful the search system for the Archives is.”

He’d clicked through about twenty files by the time Ahsoka returned, Madame Nu trailing behind her. “What’s this about a bronze lightsaber?” she asked.

Anakin leaned back in his chair. “I was hoping to find out if there are any recorded instances of someone wielding a bronze ‘saber,” he told her.

“Any particular reason why?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. Anakin resisted rolling his own. She was always so suspicious of his Archive-related activities. Was it really so hard for her to believe that he actually _wanted_ information for once?

“We think it may have bearing on the search for a particular rogue Jedi,” Anakin stated.

Madame Nu’s expression softened, the deep wrinkles in her forehead smoothing a bit. Anakin remembered then that she’d always liked Obi-Wan. “I see,” she said, a melancholy note to her voice. She nodded to herself. “There’s a chance there might be something.”

She took off down one of the aisles and Ahsoka scurried after her. When they returned, Ahsoka was carrying a stack of four datapads. “Those are all the articles we have that mention a bronze lightsaber,” Madame Nu explained. “They’re very rare, and it’s likely that the ones mentioned in all of these are actually a single lightsaber.” Her lips quirked up. “These are all just legends. However, I wouldn’t be surprised if your Master had managed to stumble upon a long lost artifact. He always did have a penchant for finding unusual things at unusual times, in unusual places.”

Like a clone army on a missing planet, Anakin mused to himself.

“Thank you,” Anakin said, standing to bow to her. “I hope you don’t mind me checking these pads out. I’m leaving on a mission today and would like time to go through what you’ve compiled for me.”

Madame Nu let out a huff. “Very well, Knight Skywalker,” she said. “But I expect them all to come back in one piece. Understand?”

Ahsoka covered her mouth, doing a poor job of hiding her smile. Anakin bit his lip to prevent his own wide grin. “Of course.”

* * *

The thing about war, Anakin had learned, was that it left no survivors. Not even those who lived survived with their whole selves intact. A piece of a person was left behind on any battlefield they were fortunate enough to step away from.

The current war had not been the beginning for Obi-Wan, to Anakin’s growing horror. He had been leaving pieces of himself behind since he was thirteen. Maybe even earlier—but Bant wouldn’t tell him about earlier.

“The only part relevant to you right now,” she said and settled into the co-pilot’s seat, “is Melida/Daan. That’s where Obi-Wan’s first war experience comes from.”

Enraptured, Anakin keyed the coordinates to Dathomir into the ship’s autonav system and accepted the cup of tea pressed into his hands. He listened eagerly to this little glimpse of Obi-Wan’s past like a child being told a story. Bant glossed over gory details, stating nothing but hard facts of the events as they occurred, but Anakin could imagine them for himself. In his mind he pictured a thirteen year old boy (and thirteen—that was so _young_ for a Padawan, so _unusual_ for a time before the war, his own case notwithstanding), left behind by his master because he chose to do what was right over what he’d been told; a boy who advised fellow children on how to best kill and avoid being killed; a boy that took lives as he tried to save them; a single boy who made a planet’s struggles his own, despite having no ties to it and no responsibility for its people.

A boy that, after all had been said and done, lost his best friends and his way after the fighting had stopped, after the war had been ended. A young, traumatized boy that went back to his not-quite home, begging to be taken back, apologizing for insolence, apologizing for acting recklessly. A boy that learned his lesson.

It had been a harsh one.

“I was angry at Master Jinn,” Bant admitted, and Anakin could understand why, because the anger simmered in him too, underneath the surface where Bant would not see or sense it. “I still am, in the instances I remember the whole event. He had been so _selfish_. I didn’t understand how he could leave Obi-Wan behind. How _any_ master could leave their Padawan behind.” She shook her head sadly and rested her cheek in her hand. “I hadn’t understood why Obi-Wan chose to stay, either. I was so upset with him at first, but it was because I hadn’t understood his reasoning. When he came back, he explained that when he was given the option to stay or go, he had a vision.”

This got Anakin’s attention. Obi-Wan certainly hadn’t been prone to visions, though he’d had them from time to time, like all Jedi; he hadn’t given Anakin any indication that he’d experienced them in his own Padawanship. Mostly, Anakin figured it was the lack of sleep, since all of Anakin’s own visions happened when he slept. But a vision while awake? With the information that Cody had given him, and now this, it seemed Obi-Wan’s tally for visions during consciousness was up to two. He wondered, absently, if there were more.

“You recall,” she said, “that your master has the rare gift of foresight, yes?”

“I do,” Anakin confirmed.

“Well,” she huffed, sounding sardonic. “Obi-Wan _truly_ struck gold with his gift. He has a very strong sense of foresight. Master Yoda personally guided him as a youngling because of the anxiety it caused.”

Anakin raised his brows in disbelief. “Really? Private lessons with Master Yoda? No wonder Master Obi-Wan is so fond of the old troll.”

Bant let out a huff of laughter. “Indeed.” She continued, “Many Jedi who have foresight rarely experience visions—generally, it’s just impressions from the Force, and having the gift of foresight is, of course, not a prerequisite for having visions. Any Jedi can have a vision, after all, if the Force wishes it.

“Foresight and visions can be a nasty combination, though, especially for younglings. The constant anxiety is overwhelming.” She paused, took a drink of tea. “He never got many visions, but when he did have them, they were… comprehensive, to say the least. Vividly and horrifically detailed. So much so that he sometimes failed to tell the difference between what was in his head and what made up reality. I think his natural affinity for foresight made them that way. It’s why Master Jinn was a good match for him—he was strong in the Living Force, and it helped ground Obi-Wan.”

“He always told me to not linger on my visions. To stay in the present and not focus on my anxieties,” Anakin said.

Bant smiled a bit. “Master Jinn’s teaching, right there. Obi-Wan had to remind himself of that particular lesson often. I think he would’ve gotten lost in his own head otherwise. It’s hard for younglings with foresight to distinguish between natural anxiety and Force-sent anxiety.”

With a purse of his lips, Anakin stared at the blinking lights on the console. He hadn’t ever truly understood why Obi-Wan had told him not to fixate on his visions or anxieties, but now he was beginning to. “On Melida/Daan,” he said quietly. “What did he see?”

“He said he saw destruction if he left. Death. Endless bloodshed. The Force had presented him with two options: leave and let people die, or stay and help them live. You already know which one he chose.”

Anakin hummed, trying to make sense of everything he’d learned.

“Even after all this time, I still can’t believe Master Jinn didn’t stay with him. He was only _thirteen_ ,” Bant huffed. “They’d barely had any time together as Master and Padawan. And after everything that happened before Obi became Master Jinn’s Padawan—” She cut herself off.

Anakin leaned forward, elbows the ship console. He let the silence stretch. His mind was still spinning with newfound knowledge. Obi-Wan _had_ left the Order before, a long time ago. He hadn’t just thought about it—he’d up and _left_. Disobeyed his master and was denounced, abandoned, all for choosing to do what he believed to be the right thing—for choosing to do what he _knew_ was the right thing, because the Force had told him so.

“How did he become Master Jinn’s Padawan?” Anakin asked.

Bant let out a sigh. “I would tell you, Anakin, but—it’s not my place, and I don’t even know the whole story. Even explaining Melida/Daan is overstepping boundaries.” She paused, fiddling with the handle of her mug. “As it is, that particular conflict is easily accessible knowledge in the Temple, though not necessarily all the details regarding Obi-Wan. If you looked up the reports in the Archives, you’d find all you need to know about the situation, but you wouldn’t see the personal aspects of it.”

She sat up, stared out the viewscreen at the stars streaking by, the blue vortex of hyperspace all that could be seen. “That’s not even the worst of what he faced. You must understand, Anakin—Obi-Wan had… an unconventional Padawanship.” She snorted. “I mean, he had an unconventional _master_ , but as far as missions went, he seemed to attract the worst kind. I suppose that’s why the Council didn’t argue when he said he would take over the armies of any Jedi we lost. If anyone could handle it, it would be him—even if he physically _couldn’t_.”

With a rueful smile, Anakin said, “Guess they hadn’t counted on losing him too.”

Bant took a sip of tea. Anakin didn’t care for the kind they were having—but he’d never cared much for tea, not even Obi-Wan’s extensive collection. He was more of a caf person. He didn’t have it in him to decline Bant’s offer, though he was regretting the cup cooling in his hands. Tea reminded him too much of Obi-Wan.

Lots of things reminded him of Obi-Wan these days.

“I think the Council was prepared for a different way of losing him,” Bant said. “Anything can happen during war. We’ve seen how many great Jedi have died.”

Anakin winced at the implication. “Obi-Wan would’ve made it through the war if he stayed,” he stated. “I would’ve made sure he did.”

Bant rolled her eyes. “That’s not something you can control,” she said with a stern look. “You know that.” A pause. She searched Anakin’s face. Anakin matched her gaze, refusing to look away. He wondered what she was looking for. “What would you have done, had Obi-Wan died instead of left?” she asked.

Anakin scowled. “I would’ve avenged him—” He stopped. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. He pressed his lips together and looked away, his cheeks heating up.

Softly, she said, “What will you do if you find him?”

“I… hadn’t thought about it,” he admitted. “I guess—I guess I figured I’d ask him to come home and he would. Just saying it aloud—it’s stupid.” He dropped his head into his hands and tangled his fingers in his hair with a groan. “He practically told me he was leaving and I didn’t kriffing realize it. I’m such an idiot.”

She leaned over, placed a hand on his shoulder. The gesture was so familiar it made his heart clench. “I know it feels hopeless right now, but he’ll come back to us. Maybe not soon, but he will. Eventually. And if he dies out there, then we’ll meet him when we rejoin the Force as well,” she said.

Anakin couldn’t accept that. But he couldn’t tell her so. He got to his feet and bowed stiffly, mug of cold tea still in his grip. “Thank you for the tea, Master Eerin, and for telling me about Melida/Daan. I… think I will meditate on what I’ve learned.” She watched him, unblinking, as he darted out of the cockpit. He wouldn’t be needed to pilot until they got out of hyperspace anyway.

Meditation wasn’t going to happen, and he had the feeling she knew it, but it had been the only excuse he could think of in the moment. The conversation had been going down a path Anakin didn’t want to think about.

He would find Obi-Wan alive and he would bring him home.

Any other outcome was unacceptable.

* * *

Anakin spent his spare time pacing in the back of their transport and reading the datapads he’d taken with him. Bant seemed to understand that he needed privacy and didn’t leave the cockpit, letting him read and think in peace.

In all the texts, he only found two things worth noting. One of the documents referred to the particular crystal used as a piece of Sith heritage. Another mentioned a crystal being involved in the founding of the Order, and referenced it as being part of some vague prophecy that Anakin could make neither head nor tail of. The text itself rambled along without punctuation like it had been dictated by some deranged fool whose mind had fled them, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the final sentence:

_And when the Galaxy goes cold and empty and is all torn apart when Hope has died and the strongest of Knights fall to their knees begging the gaping maw to swallow them whole there will be a luminous Heart in the depths of Darkness and the Guardian will rise up to light the way to Peace._

It seemed to be another one of those prophecies the Jedi Order loved so much. One regarding major turmoil in the galaxy, and then salvation, brought to them by this ancient lightsaber crystal long lost by time. How the wielder was meant to do so, however, the texts didn’t specify. Anakin thought it sounded a lot like the whole Chosen One prophecy. It followed the same exact basic premise—chaos in the galaxy and then the one who would bring peace.

It would be ironic, Anakin thought, for Obi-Wan to also be the subject of a prophecy. It would make them quite a pair. The Chosen One and, well, whatever the kriff the wielder of this all-powerful blade was called—the Guardian, he supposed. Anakin would come up with a better name later.

A wayward thought struck him. What if Obi-Wan wasn’t the one with the bronze ‘saber? If the other text was to be believed, then it was a powerful Sith object, and that kind of potential in the hands of a darksider would surely bring about the fall of the Republic.

And if it wasn’t a darksider, what if it _was_ Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan had fallen?

 _No_ , Anakin thought angrily at himself. _Obi-Wan would never fall._

Despite his own uncertainty, the Force whispered around him, reassuring. He could feel Obi-Wan, a vague and distant light in the background noise of the Force, bright as a star but seeming to disappear the moment Anakin tried to pinpoint his location. It was frustrating, to say the least, and Anakin reached out along their bond again, pressing his mind up against the impenetrable wall that had gone up between them.

 _I will find you_ , he thought at Obi-Wan, not minding that his words bounced off the shield and echoed back at him, unheard. _And when I do, you’re going to come home with me. I promise you that._

* * *

Their journey to Dathomir went about as well as Anakin figured it could’ve gone.

It had yielded a location from Mother Talzin, at least. Anakin wasn’t inclined to trust her. The Nightsisters were beings that wielded the dark side, after all. Darksiders were full of trickery and deceit. Mother Talzin had refused to reveal anything at first, but Bant eventually won her over. She gave them a location and a name.

Savage Oppress. Jedi Killer. Sith Apprentice. Dooku’s new assassin.

He was on Toydaria, she’d said. That was where they needed to go if they wanted to find the beast that slaughtered Jedi.

They went as fast as their ship could take them.

Anakin didn’t have time to stew on it. They landed and confronted the beast in the Toydarian palace, but the creature kept them at bay using the Toydarian king’s unconscious body to keep them from hitting him. They couldn’t risk killing the king, and the beast knew it.

Their ship was targeted and with dismay Anakin remembered the datapads he’d promised to bring back whole. They’d gotten lucky, though. He had no doubt that, had Bant not been there and made use of both quick reflexes and the Force to toss their ship out of the way, their ship would be in pieces rather than just damaged. He couldn’t help thinking that if it had been him and Obi-Wan, their transport would have been destroyed.

That didn’t stop the beast from getting away on a Separatist frigate, the king unconscious and slung over his shoulder like a sack of meat. With a still functional ship, they took off after the beast.

“Dooku’s on that ship,” Anakin said as they drew near it. “I can feel him.”

“Yes,” Bant agreed.

They landed in the suspiciously empty hangar of the frigate. Keeping a lock on the raging dark energy, Anakin followed it to Dooku’s cabin—only to see Dooku escape through a hatch with Ventress hot on his heels.

In the cabin remained the beast.

The beast looked at him with sulfuric eyes ringed with red, and the hate and rage and fear radiated from him like a leaking reactor, so poignant and _pained_ in the Force. The creature was in pain, and he was lashing out; Anakin realized, then, that the beast had had no choice. He had been a slave.

Anakin pitied him.

But the creature had killed so many Jedi. So many clones.

Anger flared to life within Anakin. Anger for those they lost. Anger on behalf of the hurt creature in front of him. Anger at Obi-Wan for leaving. Anger at the Council for letting him leave.

All consuming, all encompassing.

He shoved it down, walled it up.

Now was not the time for anger. He had to focus. If he couldn’t capture Dooku, then the beast would do just as well.

With Bant as his side, they battled the horned creature. They weren’t in sync; their timing was off, their movements sloppy, their blows stilted and they narrowly avoided hitting each other. Bant accommodated as best she could, tried to adjust her own style to fit with Anakin—but it didn’t work.

She wasn’t Obi-Wan. She didn’t have his skill.

They lost the beast, in the end. Despite being wounded by Dooku’s droids, he escaped.

As they flew away from the frigate, Anakin slammed his metal fist on the ship’s console, and all the anger he’d blocked off broke through, directed at himself.

* * *

Disappointment from that mission followed Anakin to Alderaan. Ahsoka complained about the Force around him being tumultuous and he tried to rein it in—he really did. But the ire he felt that Dooku had evaded him once again and that he hadn’t even managed to subdue the creature the Sith Lord had used as a weapon—it coiled hot and heavy like coals in his gut. He wanted to kill Dooku. He wanted to kill that Force-forsaken beast. He wanted to know who the kriff Dooku’s master was so he could kill them too.

At least on Alderaan, with only Ahsoka, he didn’t have to hide his anger as much.

Bail Organa greeted them warmly. “I was told to expect you,” he said, and Anakin’s irritation dissipated, surprise taking its place.

He glanced to Ahsoka, then back to Organa. “Did someone contact you to say we were coming?”

Organa gave a vague ‘hm’ and gestured for them to follow, which answered nothing, to Anakin’s never-ending frustration. Kriffing politicians. Ahsoka shrugged at Anakin and padded after the senator. With a sigh, Anakin trailed after them. How the hell Padmé could stand being a politician and dealing with politicians baffled him to no end. Obi-Wan, at least, had always been vocal about his distaste for them—though he seemed to have some affinity for Organa that Anakin never figured out.

Well, Senator Organa was nice, he supposed. And honest, which was a rare quality in a politician. Padmé got along well with him too, and she sometimes told Anakin of their many exploits together in the Senate. Admittedly, Anakin hadn’t listened too much to those, and Padmé didn’t bother with repeating herself when it came to talking about politics with Anakin. Generally, they didn’t talk about politics together at all—only when Obi-Wan happened to be around at the same time, which had been rare, and those conversations had been dominated by the two of them, leaving Anakin out, and he had been content to think of the projects in his room or the upgrades he wanted to make to his starfighter rather than participate.

Perhaps he should’ve listened to them more, he thought, because then he’d have a better idea of what Bail Organa was like.

“So,” Ahsoka began. “How _did_ you know to expect us, Senator?”

“A good friend stopped by not too long ago. He told me you would be looking for him, though he didn’t say why.” Organa glanced over his shoulder at Anakin.

“Obi-Wan _was_ here,” Anakin breathed. He sped up and caught Organa by the shoulder, halting him. “When did he get here? When did he leave? Why did he come to Alderaan? Did he say where he was going next?”

“One question at a time, please, Master Skywalker,” Organa said.

“Sorry,” Anakin said and released Organa’s shoulder.

“It’s alright.” Organa’s voice was soft. Like he was treating Anakin with kid gloves on.

Force, Anakin was getting real tired of people treating him like that when it came to the topic of Obi-Wan.

Organa gestured with a tilt of his head for them to continue following. They walked through the ornate halls with tall windows that let in the light to a dining room with a long table. Organa pulled out a chair to the right of the head of the table and had Ahsoka take a seat. Then he indicated to Anakin to take the one across from Ahsoka. Organa then took his place at the head of the table. A waiter arrived and placed glasses of water by each of them. “You’ve arrived just in time for lunch,” he said. “If you don’t mind joining me, I’ll do my best to answer your questions while we eat.”

Force, he was annoyingly polite. No wonder Obi-Wan liked him so much.

“Of course, Senator,” Anakin said, keeping his voice as flowery as he could. That’s what politicians liked, right? “Thank you for having us. I’m sure you must have a lot more important things to attend to than entertaining two Jedi. How are things going in the Senate?”

“There’s no need to pretend with me, Master Skywalker,” Organa said coolly. “I’d appreciate your bluntness from earlier over whatever you’re attempting now.” Ahsoka made a choking sound as she drank from her glass.

Anakin furrowed his brows, remembering that he’d already acted out within minutes of landing, and he coughed into his hand to cover the embarrassed flush he knew would be appearing on his cheeks. How did he already forget his display from earlier, when his emotions had slipped from his grasp and in desperation he’d launched a barrage of questions at Organa? He needed to get himself together.

He could control himself. He didn’t need Obi-Wan to hold him back by the collar. He didn’t _have_ his old master to do so anymore.

“I won’t bother with any of the formalities, then,” Anakin said. “You said Obi-Wan was here.”

“Yes.” A servant returned with porcelain tea cups and a pot. “Would either of you like tea?” Organa asked.

Without thinking much about it, Anakin replied, “Yes, thank you.” Ahsoka echoed him. The servant poured a cup for each of them.

Anakin took a sip and his eyes widened. It was the Stewjonian blend that Obi-Wan loved so much—prepared on the Mid-Rim planet, it had a slight bitter flavor to it and a hint of some plant that Anakin vaguely recalled was found all over the planet’s valleys. It balanced the bitterness and gave the tea a delicately sweet flavor. It was one of the few blends Anakin could stand having on a given day.

Neither of them had ever been to Stewjon, but Obi-Wan often said the tea made him feel at home. It wasn’t sold many places outside of the planet either—Obi-Wan had a contact on Coruscant that supplied him with the brew.

“Where did you get this blend?” Anakin asked.

“It was a gift from Master Kenobi,” Organa said, sipping from his own cup. “A thank you gift, for a mission we went on together.”

Ahsoka stared at her own cup. “This is one of Master Kenobi’s favorite flavors,” she said, sounding wistful.

“I’m aware,” Organa said. “Whenever we met for a game of Sabaac, we’d often share a pot.”

Organa placed his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. “But to expand on my answer to your earlier question, Master Skywalker—Master Kenobi visited me just last week.”

“Was he alone?” Ahsoka asked.

“No, he had a clone with him, whose name they wouldn’t tell me,” he answered. “And they had many young children in their company.” With a small, amused smile, Organa ducked his head. “Master Kenobi had all their detonators. He couldn’t find the slave chips and neutralize them, so he just took their detonators. Imagine my surprise when he gave them all to me in a bag and told me to get the chips out of the children, then destroy both the chips and the detonators.”

“So he _did_ bring the slave children here,” Anakin said, but mention of Waxer made him frown. The Senate had been kept in the dark about a deserted clone, save for Chancellor Palpatine, who had ordered the Jedi to keep quiet about it. Anakin hoped Organa wouldn’t go telling his fellow Senators about it. “Do you still have custody of them?”

“I do,” Organa confirmed. “We had them all go through medical screenings and removed their chips. We’re working on getting them proper support and places to stay. Some of them had parents on other planets, I believe, so we’re trying to find any family they might still have. Others will go into Alderaan’s foster care system.”

Anakin winced. What he knew of Coruscant’s system didn’t give him much confidence. Organa noticed his reaction, though. “Not to worry, Master Skywalker,” he said. “Alderaan prides itself on taking care of its children, whether they are orphaned or not. They will find a home here, whether it is with a smaller family or within the system, and they’ll all be provided with the necessary support to cope with what’s happened to them.”

Anakin couldn’t keep his brows from rising. “Recovering from slavery is not an easy thing,” he said. “Many of those kids won’t adjust well to civilian life, no matter how young they are.”

Organa nodded. “I know. We don’t expect them to ever _recover_ from what happened to them. We merely provide the support they’ll need to live full lives with their wounds. There are always problems with the system, of course, but we do what we can. Mental health is taken very seriously here.”

It seemed that Alderaan had it together in a way other Republic planets didn’t. Anakin already liked Organa a lot more than before.

A waiter arrived with their meals—a leafy salad with a peculiar brown dressing on it and bread rolls. After a pause and a few bites of his dish, Organa put his fork down and asked, “Would you like to test some of them for Force sensitivity? Master Kenobi told me a few of them may be strong enough to manifest, but he wasn’t certain and didn’t have time to check himself.”

“No,” Anakin said too quickly. Ahsoka and Organa both looked at him. “That is—while the Order is a safe place for younglings, I don’t believe many of them would adjust well to the Jedi lifestyle after all they’ve been through, especially if they’re older.” Anakin was speaking from experience, of course. Not that Ahsoka or Organa knew that.

“Didn’t you enter the Order when you were a lot older, Master?” Ahsoka asked. “Surely these younglings could adjust as you have.”

“Not everyone operates the same,” Anakin said, and inwardly grimaced at his own hypocrisy.

“I suppose not,” Ahsoka said, falling silent as she took another swallow of tea.

Anakin turned back to Organa. “Obi-Wan told you he didn’t have time to test them.”

“Mhm.”

“Was he in some sort of hurry?”

“He did seem to be. He looked stressed about something, but I didn’t press.”

“You know, though, that he left the Order.”

“I do. It was hard to avoid the news once it got out. Some of the Senate is still arguing over what they want to do about it. Though I didn’t hear anything about a clone deserting,” Organa said.

“About that,” Anakin said awkwardly. “We need you to keep that quiet. The Chancellor is worried about the distrust among the public such a desertion will cause, which is why the Senate was not alerted.”

“I understand,” Organa nodded. “I suspect keeping the news quiet will keep Kenobi and his friend safe, since clones are easy to identify. Master Kenobi is a friend, and a trusted associate,” Organa said. “It was obvious that the two of them weren’t going to harm anyone—the opposite seems to be the case. And I wasn’t going to push them when it was obviously not a good time to do so.”

“How was he?” Ahsoka asked timidly. “I mean, like—was Master Obi-Wan okay? He wasn’t hurt?”

Organa’s eyes softened, and he relaxed his posture, just a bit. He’d made himself approachable, a comfort. Organa would make a good father, Anakin thought. “He was fine, Padawan Tano. A little frayed, perhaps, and tired, but not hurt, and he’s in good company. And as evidenced by the transport full of children he brought me, it seems he’s been rather busy.”

“Did he say where he was going next?” Anakin inquired.

“I’m sorry to say he didn’t,” Organa said, and Anakin searched the Force for a lie, but Organa wasn’t lying.

Ever the honest man.

“He refused to tell me,” Organa continued. “He told me it was better if I didn’t know. Plausible deniability, and all that. I did offer Alderaan as a place for him to stay, should he need it.”

That was upsetting. Obi-Wan would rather associate with _politicians_ than Anakin. Anakin, who was his best friend, his former Padawan, his partner in battle. So caught up in his own thoughts, Anakin almost missed Organa’s next sentence:

“He said that it was unnecessary, though, and that he would not be returning anytime soon.”

Resentment momentarily forgotten, Anakin raised a brow. “Really?”

Organa shrugged. “If you’re wondering what he’s up to, I wish I could tell you. Your guess is as good as mine. Even the clone wouldn’t give me anything. He was very good at deflecting my questions, and spent more time with the children than he did with myself and Master Kenobi.”

“Was there anything strange about either of them when they were here?” Anakin asked.

“Not particularly. Master Kenobi conducted himself as he always does in my company. I will say, I’ve missed him terribly, so it was lovely to see him. I can’t get over the lack of a beard, though—he looks much younger without it,” Organa said.

“That’s probably why he grew it,” Anakin replied.

Organa chuckled. “I can see that.”

“Do you think we could talk to the children Master Kenobi brought?” Ahsoka asked. Her plate was empty. Anakin had forgotten about his, and hurriedly shoved some of the salad into his mouth. To not eat at least some of his meal would be rude, and he did feel hungry.

Organa thought about it. “I expect that you could, Padawan Tano, since you are young, but Master Skywalker will have to stay away.” With an apologetic look, he said, “Adults make them wary. They would only trust me because Master Kenobi and the clone reassured them that I wasn’t going to harm them. I’m sure you understand.”

Anakin sighed. “That’s fine.” To Ahsoka, he said, “See if they know anything about Master Kenobi’s new lightsaber. And if they overheard anything about where they went next.”

Ahsoka mock saluted. “You got it, Master.”

Organa seemed satisfied. “I’ll take you to them once we’ve finished lunch, then.”

* * *

Anakin paced the hallway, hands folded behind his back. Organa had left him to wait for Ahsoka as she talked to the former slave children, telling them to find him in his office once they had finished so that he could see them off.

Ahsoka finally emerged from the room after what seemed like hours. Anakin rushed to her. “What did you find out? What’d they say?”

“The older ones told me that he had a lightsaber,” she said.

“Did they ever see the color?”

“No. They said he never even took it off his belt. He just smuggled them out of there with their masters none the wiser until it was too late.”

Anakin ran a hand through his hair and let out a frustrated huff. “What about where they were going next? Did the kids overhear anything?”

Ahsoka shook her head, a sour expression on her face. “Nothing. Well—one of them said they kept arguing over whether or not to go to Mandalore, but it was in the context of whether Alderaan or Mandalore was a better location, apparently.”

Anakin had to restrain himself from punching through Organa’s nice wall. Which was a shame, because he really wanted to punch a hole in something, and Organa’s wall was the closest thing. He didn’t want to do something so crass, though, when Organa had been so kind to them. “Well,” Anakin growled. “I’m sure the two of them will pop up on the radar again. If Obi-Wan keeps pulling these kinds of stunts, there’s no way news won’t spread.”

“Hopefully we’ll catch up with him soon,” Ahsoka sighed as they headed to Organa’s office. “No matter what Senator Organa says, I’m still really worried about him.”

“He was a Master Jedi and one of the most cunning generals in the Republic Army,” Anakin said. “He can take care of himself.”

Always too good at seeing right through him, Ahsoka merely frowned. “That doesn’t mean we can’t worry about him.”

“Snips, he left us, and evidently, he doesn’t want to be found.” He stopped, suddenly, feeling his own lips contort in pain. “What if it’s my fault?” he said. “What if Obi-Wan’s avoiding me in particular?”

Ahsoka made a face. “Don’t be silly, Skyguy. Master Obi-Wan cares about us. He cares about _you_. You’d have to be blind not to see it, Master, especially with what he said the night before he left. I’m sure there’s—a _reason_. I can’t think of any _good_ reasons, but there is one.”

Anakin deflated. His shoulders dropped. “Yeah. You’re right.” He straightened and took a deep breath in. “We’ll keep looking for him and once we find him, we’ll drag the reason from him if we have to. Right, Snips?”

“You bet, Skyguy,” she said, and Anakin felt the slightest bit better about their situation.

Obi-Wan would surface again, and when he did, they _were_ going to find him.


	9. A Man Chooses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for this being late! I've moved back to uni for a summer class and it's super time consuming, not to mention how much time moving took, and then the fumigation that happened to my condo that displaced me for two days.......
> 
> ANYWAY. New chapter, new video game reference title! It's relevant to the plot of this chapter.
> 
> Next chapter will also be late because I'm drowning in a sea of assignments. Apologies for that. Thanks to my betas for continuing to be patient and help me make this story the best version of itself it can be.

A steady stream of supplies from the cities came in, as well as volunteers to help build houses and public facilities such as the local school and medcenter. Kenobi had suggested to Abaad that the village be built on the site of the camp, as it had proven to be a safer location than the seaside. Getting to the shore wasn’t a long trip, so those who worked on the sea would still be able to do so.

When Kenobi wasn’t assisting with repairs and talking with Abaad, he was meditating. Waxer didn’t meditate with him, opting to enjoy the other’s quiet company while taking apart his blaster pistol and cleaning it. How Kenobi managed to sit in silence, statue still, for an hour or more was beyond Waxer. He had tried, but kept getting restless, and the cross-legged position made his upper thighs and ankles go numb after about ten minutes.

He did join Kenobi in a few sparring sessions, though. They needed to keep their skills up, so they would practice hand-to-hand maneuvers geared towards disarming: breaking limbs, straining joints, and utilizing pressure points. Waxer considered himself half-decent at fist-fights, but Kenobi wiped the floor with him over and over again. It didn’t take Waxer long to realize that Kenobi had years of practice on his side.

So Kenobi worked with him on his hand-to-hand combat skills, and Waxer stood to the side and watched as Kenobi went through kata after kata with his ‘saber on low power, listening to the constant hum of the blade as it swept through the air.

It really was an elegant weapon, Waxer thought. He still preferred a blaster, though.

A week came and went and Kenobi was getting frustrated.

They’d been staying in Avnee’s newly constructed hut. It was small and a bit cramped, but she’d insisted that they stay with her while they helped the village, and they had agreed to keep her company. Besides, she needed all the help she could get with her infant brother, and Waxer hadn’t minded taking care of the little boy, keeping track of his receding fever and recovering strength.

“I can’t pinpoint the source of the turbulence,” Kenobi told Waxer in a hushed voice, so as to not wake Avnee, who was napping on a pile of blankets in the corner, arms wrapped around Samaan. “It’s close by, that much I can tell. I’m afraid we’ll have to physically go out and search. The Darkness clouds the Force too much for me to find it any other way.”

So Waxer found himself doing what he’d been doing in Ghost Company: scouting.

This was his primary skillset. This was what he was good at. He and Kenobi would go inland together on foot then separate to cover more ground, agreeing to meet back at the village before night fell.

It took four days before the search yielded anything. Waxer had been out by a dried ravine that cut deep through the earth when he’d seen something hidden in the rocky cliffs, recessed into the walls. It was a large building with tall, durasteel walls and barbed wire at the top. It appeared to be a prison of some sort, but Waxer didn’t recall seeing it on any maps of Eriadu they’d looked at. There were no lights and the building was situated in an area of the ravine that wouldn’t receive any sun. He couldn’t tell how deep into the cliffs it went, but from his vantage point he could see that the place was nigh impenetrable.

That part meant nothing, really. Kenobi would find a way in.

He took his newfound information back to the village and reported to Kenobi once the other had returned from his search.

“Show me,” he said, and they ventured out into the dead wilderness of Eriadu in the dark of night, skirting the edges of the ravine in the dim starlight.

“There,” Waxer said, pointing to a barely visible fortress in the shadows of the rocks. “Is this what we’re looking for?”

“Yes,” Kenobi gritted out through clenched teeth. “There’s—something wrong, here. The Force has never felt this twisted in all my past encounters with Sith.”

“You’ll have to explain in more detail than that,” Waxer huffed, crossing his arms.

“It’s like the Force has been corrupted, somehow—or mutated until it almost doesn’t resemble the Force anymore,” Kenobi said, looking down at the fortress with a grimace. “It feels like… like I’m being suffocated.”

“Oh, I have a _really_ bad feeling about this,” Waxer said.

“As do I,” Kenobi replied.

“May as well get this whole thing over with. What’s the plan?”

“We’re not breaking in _now_ ,” Kenobi said, frowning. “We’ll go back to the village and return in the morning to scout the area more thoroughly. We have no idea what this facility’s purpose is. It’s best to gain as much information as we can before we take action.”

“Now that’s something I can get behind,” Waxer said, and they headed back to the village, leaving the oppressive dark in the distance.

* * *

They spent three days investigating the ravine, sticking to the shadows, searching for gaps in the fortress’s defenses or a way to get in undetected. More often than not, they went out at night, and the massive amounts of pollution in the atmosphere kept the stars and moon from shining too brightly, keeping them hidden from sight. They crept around the ridges in the pitch black, clambering up onto ledges and picking their way down to steadier ground. On the third day, in the light of dawn, they managed to find the sewer system by tracing back some filthy liquid residue that ran down one area of the rocks from tunnels twice their heights, turning them black, a stark difference to the brown of the cliff walls.

That, they decided, was their best option.

Despite having a plan to enter the building, they had no idea what would await them inside. The idea, then, was to infiltrate, gather any information they could, and get out without being detected. Upon getting inside, they would locate any and all exits they could, and they would stick together. Sticking together was especially important; if they were alone, they could be captured, and they couldn’t afford capture—there was no one to come rescue them if it all went wrong.

“I think this is a step in the right direction,” Kenobi confessed to Waxer the night before the operation. “Something is telling me we’re needed there. I believe that if we’re successful in… whatever this is, we will have repelled some of the Darkness clouding the Force.”

“Then we do what we have to do,” Waxer replied. “We face the Darkness head on and beat it back with whatever we’ve got.”

And so they went, once again utilizing the cloak of night to obscure them. They donned their helmets, a godsend for any trek through a sewer system, and waded knee deep into the sludge that fell across the ravine’s walls.

They emerged from the sewers into the waste treatment room, and from there they found their way up into the main halls. They cleaned off their boots as best they could and tried not to track a trail of muck over the sterile white floors. A peculiar smell found its way through the air filters in Waxer’s helmet and he wrinkled his nose at the sharpness of it and the cold that accompanied it. The scent was artificial, reminded him of antiseptic, but it had an added sourness to it that made his nostrils sting.

Waxer followed Kenobi in silence, dogging his heels as he moved through the halls, hand hovering over where his lightsaber was hooked to his belt. Kenobi’s stance was reminiscent of battle, and a spike of adrenaline coursed in Waxer’s blood. If it came to a fight, they would probably die, but Waxer was prepared to go down shooting, like he’d been prepared to do on every battlefield he’d ever stepped on.

But they encountered no living guards and no droids. Just empty hallways and empty rooms.

The facility seemed to be unoccupied.

“Where is everyone?” Waxer asked over their private comm.

“I don’t know,” Kenobi said. “I can sense many lifeforms—dozens of them. But I cannot figure out where. Something is distorting their presences in the Force.”

They happened upon a turbolift and the only direction it went was down. The doors were open, as though whoever ran the facility had been expecting the two of them. Waxer felt warning bells go off in his head, but he tamped down on the instincts telling him to turn around and walk away. This wasn’t something they could walk away from. There was only one option for them now.

“It’s definitely a trap,” Kenobi said, unhooking his ‘saber from his belt.

“I suppose that’s where we go, then,” Waxer said, taking his blaster out of its holster. “After all, you love springing traps.”

“If something happens, we’ll likely be stuck there. To face whatever’s waiting for us,” Kenobi said. “And whatever it is, I get the feeling it won’t be good.”

Waxer shrugged. “Guess we’ll have to wing it Skywalker-style, sir.”

“So much for the plan,” Kenobi griped as they stepped into the lift.

“You say that as though our plans  _never_ change,” Waxer replied as the doors hissed shut.

An alarm blared once. The rumble of working machinery filled the lift. The lights flickered.

They descended.

* * *

The turbolift’s doors opened to a room with lights so bright they were blinding.

Once Waxer recovered his vision, he took a better look at where they’d been taken, and stepped out of the lift. It seemed to be a control room of some sort, walls covered in screens with charts and data that Waxer couldn’t hope to begin interpreting. There were a few chairs shoved under neat white desks. The room was empty, and it was silent save for the almost imperceptible hum of machines running.

Kenobi was already investigating the graphs and tables spread across the monitors. He moved jerkily, tapping one of the screens. A keyboard popped up in front of him with letters that Waxer didn’t recognize. Kenobi’s fingers moved quickly, flying across the holographic keys, and the displays changed. On them now were dossiers, each containing a picture of a child of various different species. Kenobi lowered his hands, stared at the screens.

Kenobi’s expression was hidden underneath his helmet, but Waxer could see the tense line of his spine, the way his fingers dug into the backs of the desk chairs.

“What is it?” Waxer asked, gaze flitting around the room in search of security cameras. He found none, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. His grip tightened on his blaster.

“These children are all Force sensitive,” Kenobi said tersely. “This is a training facility.”

“What kind of training?” Waxer ventured.

“They’re turning younglings to the Dark side,” Kenobi answered in a wavering voice. His hands were shaking. “They’re turning younglings into _Sith._ ”

There was a clicking noise, then the power went out with a fading groan, plunging them into darkness. Emergency lights snapped on, flashing red, and Waxer could hear the drone of a backup generator. He had his blaster up, his finger hovering over the trigger, and he could feel Kenobi at his back, still standing in front of the dead monitors, his head bowed.

In the flashing lights Waxer could make out someone moving towards them from an opening in the wall that had not been there before—a hidden door?—clad in black armor. They were a head taller than Waxer and twice as bulky, and their helmet concealed their face, but they held a lightsaber in their left hand, and Waxer knew well enough what that meant. With them came an oppressive pressure, one that left Waxer breathless and sent his heart pounding against his ribcage, a fear he didn’t remember ever experiencing filling up his throat.

The ‘saber came to life, and it was arcing down on him, humming with intent to kill, and he couldn’t move. His limbs were frozen in place. Without warning, Kenobi shoved Waxer aside and there was a sharp, high pitched whine as the two blades collided and sparks flew, crimson slamming down on bronze, the walls bathed in their combined glows. Waxer rolled over his shoulder with the momentum of Kenobi’s Force-enhanced push, whipping around to aim his blaster at the dark creature.

“Why did you bring us here?” Kenobi demanded, and he surged upwards, propelling the attacker back towards the lift. The attacker leapt back, crouching low in a predatory position. Kenobi’s stance changed: both hands on the hilt of his ‘saber, blade angled in a defensive position, one foot forward, the other a step back, weight on the balls of his feet and his knees slightly bent.

The creature emitted a guttural growl and straightened up, lowering their lightsaber and powering it off.

“I was right,” the being said, and they removed their mask to reveal the hard features of a young female Barabel. Her red scales shone yellow-green in the light of Kenobi’s ‘saber, and her razor teeth glinted sharply. She dropped the helmet to the floor. It landed with a thud and bounced before settling on its side, its visor cracked. “You’re powerful. You can help me.”

Kenobi hesitated, but didn’t let his guard drop. “I fail to see how attacking us would make us want to help you,” he said.

“I needed to test you, Jedi,” she replied. “I needed to know if you were capable enough.”

“Enough of these vague statements,” Kenobi said, stepping to the side so he was in front of Waxer. “Explain what it is you want with us. I can only assume that you were the one who made it easy to get in.”

“Yes,” she affirmed. “When I felt your presence—your Light—on this planet, I knew that the Force had finally granted my wish. You have come to save those of us that can still be saved.”

“I don’t believe I follow,” Kenobi said.

“Whatever they did to her, she’s not all there in the head, sir,” Waxer murmured, holding his blaster so tight that his hand was starting to ache. The pressure, the fear—it was still there, but muted. Whatever had caused those feelings had come from the Barabel and she was reining it in, sparing Waxer further pain aside from the dull throb at the back of his head.

“I need you to listen to me,” the Barabel said.

“And why should we do that?” Waxer countered.

“Because there are younglings whose minds can still be preserved.”

Waxer looked to Kenobi. His eyes widened as Kenobi lowered his guard and powered off his ‘saber, leaving the room lit by the dim red emergency light. “What is your name?” Kenobi asked.

“I do not remember my true name,” she said, flicking her tongue out. “They gave me a new one, when they brought me here. They call me Neavma.” She shifted her weight, looking uneasy and uncertain. Waxer didn’t think them emotions that Sith wore often. “Please, remove your helmets. I would like to see the faces of our salvation.”

“I don’t think so,” Waxer said before Kenobi could respond. “No offense, but we can’t trust you, no matter what you say, not when you’ve trapped us down here.”

Neavma paused. “I see. I will not hold you here. You are free to leave via the turbolift at any time. It still functions.”

“Why did you kill the power?” Kenobi asked.

“I had to distract the others. They can sense you and they crave your blood, Jedi.”

“They’re terribly mistaken, then. I’m not a Jedi.”

Neavma cocked her head. “Yes, you are.” Clamoring came from beyond the open door on the right wall. She turned towards the sound. “The others have been well trained. They will not spare you like I have. I have gathered the young ones in another room, hidden away from the guards and my peers.” She pulled a holoprojector off her belt and floated it over to Kenobi. He held out his palm and the holoprojector settled in it. He activated it and it filled the room with blue light. “That is a map of the facility. I have marked the room with the younglings. There are only ten of them. You must get them out.”

With a wave of her hand, a panel on the wall opposite the open door slid open to reveal another passageway. “Take that route and hide your location as best as you can. The others will hunt you down. I will not be able to help you if you are caught.”

Kenobi nudged Waxer towards the doorway. He went, keeping his back towards the wall so he could watch Neavma’s red-black silhouette, his blaster still raised. Neavma watched with unblinking eyes. Once Kenobi had stepped into the passage, she turned away, her heavy steps getting faint as she strode in the opposite direction.

They crept along the darkened corridors. Waxer’s instincts were on high alert and every errant noise made his head whip around, searching for moving shadows. Minutes ticked by as they hurried through, and at one point they came across a group of droids stomping through the hall. They ducked into the ventilation shafts to avoid them and crawled on their hands and knees the rest of the way to the designated room.

Kenobi dropped down into the room first, then signaled for Waxer to drop alongside him.

The room—a storage room—was void of life.

“I knew it. This was a kriffing trap,” Waxer hissed, holding his weapon at the ready.

“No,” Kenobi said, and he laid a hand on Waxer’s blaster, pointing it towards the ground. “They’re here.”

To the room, Kenobi said, “It’s alright. We won’t hurt you. We’ve come to take you away.”

Something scuffled to their left, but no one responded or revealed themselves.

“Neavma sent us,” Kenobi said.

From under tarps and behind boxes, small figures emerged. One stepped forward. It barely reached Waxer’s chest in height, but in the darkness of the room, he could tell nothing else. “Jedi?” they whispered in a shaky voice.

“Jedi,” Kenobi agreed.

The figure spoke to their companions in a language Waxer didn’t understand. It was harsh, guttural, and it grated against his ears, felt like it slithered over his skin.

There seemed to be a consensus of some kind, because the apparent leader, sounding more confident, said, “We’re ready.”

Kenobi helped Waxer back into the vents and hefted the leader of the younglings up to him. “Waxer, you start taking them back to the main room,” Kenobi said. To the youngling beside him, he said, “Pull your friends up when I lift them to you.”

One by one, a youngling was stuffed into the vents, and they crawled after Waxer, who went slowly so each could catch up. Waxer couldn’t keep a headcount—he would have to trust that Kenobi would account for all ten that were supposedly there.

They somehow managed to get all of them to the main hall without incident. Waxer helped each of the younglings down, and in the dim red of the corridor’s backup lights he could see how young they really were—half of them couldn’t have been older than three or four years old. The leader of the group, a human boy with vicious scarring all along the side of his face, had to be at most eight.

Gods. They were so _young_.

Kenobi joined the group moments later and surveyed it.

Waxer didn’t have to look at him to guess what he was thinking. Didn’t have to look at him to tell that he was furious on their behalf, didn’t have to see him to know the wrath bleeding away into anguish and the unsettling calm that always came seconds after the rest.

Waxer, however—Waxer didn’t have years of Jedi teachings to make himself follow.

The righteous anger filled him, made his breath come heavy in his helmet, and he couldn’t tell whether the red in his vision came from his rage or the emergency lights. These children should have been with their rightful guardians, going to school, living lives full of love and safety—not what this facility must have been. It must have been cold, filled with pain and punishment, where hate and violence were encouraged as responses to fear. These younglings before him looked passive, as though they didn’t expect to make it out, as though they were merely in a dream that they would soon wake up from to return to whatever horrible reality they were enduring.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Children were supposed to be sacred. Off-limits.

Waxer knew it was foolish to think that. He’d witnessed firsthand that war did not care about the young. He was part of the problem.

“Rein it in, Waxer,” Kenobi muttered, grasping Waxer’s shoulder and digging his fingers into the flesh there. Waxer winced and tried to pull away, but Kenobi held him there, made him pay attention. “They can feel your anger, and it is scaring them. If they get frightened enough, they may lash out—and ten Sith-in-training versus two of us will not end well on our behalf when we’re trying not to harm them.”

With a valiant effort, Waxer took deep, controlled breaths and forced his anger under control. It was still there, simmering at the surface and ready to burst like a volcano, but he held it down with years of discipline that decided suddenly to return to him.

He’d never felt that angry before. Annoyed, perhaps, and definitely heated, but never wrathful.

“It’s the Darkness,” Kenobi said, answering Waxer’s unasked question. “It’s strong here. It may be affecting your behavior. If you lacked control, things might’ve been worse. But you have restraint. Continue to exercise it, and you should be fine.”

With that, they set off for the main room and, encountering nothing, herded the younglings into the lift. It took them up to the top level and they rushed to the treatment room.

It was there that Kenobi halted and Waxer felt a pressure so strong it almost sent him to the ground. His knees were shaking with the effort of holding himself upright and his head throbbed. He squeezed his eyes shut and distantly heard Kenobi bark, “Take the sewers. Once you get out of them, climb up the cliffs and get as far away as you can. Keep running. Don’t look back.”

He opened his eyes and the younglings were gone, and Kenobi was standing in front of the door to the waste treatment room, his lightsaber out and humming, seemingly unbothered by the oppressive aura that filled the building. He faced five beings, all with their own lightsabers drawn, red light thrown starkly across their black armor.

One of them was helmetless, a Barabel. Neavma.

Her eyes were a sickly, sulfuric yellow, ringed red.

What happened to her, when she left them?

“Found you, Jedi,” one of the masked said in a playful tone. “Found you, found you.”

“They took the younglings,” another hissed, taking a predatory step forward. “Master won’t be pleased. We need to fetch them back. They’ll have to be punished.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Kenobi said. “Neavma.” She narrowed her eyes. “You asked this of us. Come back. You need to remember you aren’t like this. You showed us that already.”

She faltered, eyes flickering.

One of her companions dashed forward and brought their ‘saber down upon Kenobi. He parried the blow.

Two more jumped in, swinging their blades, and Kenobi deflected, feinted, danced out of their way with an impenetrable defense. The fourth moved to join, but Waxer took a shot, and it hit them in the shoulder. They jerked to one side and fell, howling, and smoke rose from the wound.

“Votme!” cried one of Kenobi’s attackers, distracted, and that was the moment Kenobi needed. He kicked the attacker’s hand and their lightsaber deactivated and went flying. Waxer dove and caught it, rolling out of the way of another’s swing while Kenobi blocked another blow.

The hallway was too small to maneuver in, and behind the rest Waxer could see Neavma still hesitating, expression swapping between fury and fear. Kenobi sidestepped out of the way of another arcing slash and threw his hand out, calling the lightsaber of the one named Votme to his hand. Waxer activated his own borrowed lightsaber and clumsily deflected an angled slash. The force of the blow pushed him back, made him stumble, and the masked creature continued the onslaught, their ‘saber a blur. A powerful downward strike brought him to his knees and his arms quaked as he tried to keep his opponent’s lightsaber from cleaving right through him.

“You don’t have to do this!” Waxer shouted, breathless, because talking was all he could do now. He couldn’t beat a Sith in a ‘saber fight, but he could try to reason with them. He could tell their hearts weren’t in it all the way. Even Waxer could see that they were holding back, though he didn’t know why.

“Yes, I do,” the masked creature snarled.

“This isn’t you,” Waxer said, and the world narrowed to him and this Sith, this creature of dark who was like the younglings, who had been stolen away and brainwashed and tortured until they were a puppet. “Your master, whoever they are—they made you this. But this isn’t _you_.”

“How would you know? You know nothing about me. This is what I _am_.”

“No,” Waxer said, and his voice was straining, and his opponent wasn’t faltering. Kenobi couldn’t help him here—he was too busy fighting off three other darksiders, two of whom were unarmed but still dangerous. “You were a child, once. There was a time when you were everything but this.”

“You will not sway me from my master’s side,” the Sith growled. “What do you think you’ll accomplish? You’re a clone. A slave of war. You’re _meaningless_ , and you will die a meaningless death.”

He didn’t understand how the Sith would know what he was, even if he _didn’t_ have his face hidden behind a helmet of his own, but he didn’t question it. There was no time to. “Then what does that make you?” Waxer asked.

“Powerful,” the Sith answered.

“You’re a slave as much as I am. A clone, just like me.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Tell me how.”

“I have power. I have the Dark side. I am a warrior.” And there, in their tone, he could hear it: doubt.

Waxer gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and prayed that what he said next would be enough. “But five of you stand here, identical. How can you claim to be any different than me and my brothers? You’re a clone of the Dark side just as much as I’m a clone of flesh and blood.”

“I am still not a slave. I am _above_ that.”

“ _Really?_  Do you have choice?”

The Sith apprentice started and their concentration lapsed, and Waxer took that opportunity to duck under his enemy’s lightsaber. “Do you have choice?” Waxer asked again once he’d gotten away, holding the red lightsaber in what he hoped was a defensive stance.

The other Sith were listening now too. Kenobi pressed his back up against Waxer, holding the two lightsabers out at arm’s length, but the other three Sith stood still, staring. Neavma’s eyes were no longer burning yellow. Still no one answered.

“Do you have _choice,_ ” Waxer said once more.

The one with the blaster wound—Votme—removed their helmet to reveal a young female Chagrian underneath. “No,” she said. “We do not.”

The one with their lightsaber rounded on Votme. “How dare you say that?” they hissed. “Our master has given us everything. We must carry out his will. It will make us _powerful_ —we will rule the _galaxy_.”

Votme stared down her companion. “We will rule nothing, Eyevia,” she said. “It’s foolish to believe our master will give us anything. What has he given us so far? Nothing.” She turned to the apprentice that Waxer had been fighting. “Toqgal, brother, come here.”

Toqgal didn’t move, said, “I’m not a slave.”

Kenobi remained silent. Waxer had been hoping for some backup, but—

Waxer had started this, had got them to listen while Kenobi had failed. He would have to finish this. He only hoped that the outcome would be in their favor.

“And how would you know?” Waxer asked. “I understand what it’s like—to live in fear, to be trained to do only one thing and nothing else, to be someone else’s tool. I’m a clone—you know as much. Your master must’ve told you about us, made sure you thought you were different.” He took a shaky breath. “But you’re like me. You’ve been programmed since you were little ones. Programmed to kill and die at someone else’s orders.”

The other unarmed Sith took off their helmet. Underneath was a young male human, freckled and pale. A long, jagged scar marred his face, crossing over his nose from one side to the other. His left eye socket was empty, mangled. “The clone is right,” he said, sounding bitter. “Neavma was right, too. She always has been.”

“Luhin,” Neavma murmured, reaching out to him, but he shook his head and looked away.

“We know what they do,” Votme said to Toqgal. “Do you really think the little ones deserve to suffer as we did?”

“If us, then why not them as well?” Toqgal spat, ripping off his helmet and throwing it to the ground. He was a Chagrian as well, and he looked identical to Votme in every way. They were twins, Waxer realized, and neither of them looked old enough to be adults. They were teenagers. All five of them were. “Why should we be the only ones?”

“Because they still do not deserve it,” Neavma finally spoke up, rasping.

“You’re all traitors,” Eyevia snarled, backing away. “Master will be disappointed in you all—but he’ll be proud of _me_ once I kill you for betraying us.” They whirled on Neavma, holding the tip of their ‘saber to her throat. “Starting with _you_. This is _your_ fault. You brought the Jedi here. You smuggled the younglings out. You’re a disgrace of a Sith. You don’t deserve the title.”

Neavma didn’t back away, merely jutted her chin out and stared down the shorter apprentice. “I will gladly forsake the title of those that destroyed me,” she said, eyes defiant. “It is a shame that you are so lost that you would believe the lies they put into our heads.”

“You’re just jealous because I’m more _powerful_ ,” Eyevia sneered.

“And yet I am not the one trying to prove myself,” Neavma threw back.

Waxer could hear the clink of metal on metal. He glanced at Kenobi, who had heard it too.

Droids.

“Eyevia,” Toqgal said. “Stop. It’s pointless.” His eyes were tight at the corners and he was biting a trembling lip, looking all the world like the frightened younglings they’d just sent away. “Neavma was always the strongest. Even _you_ know that we were going to die. That they would make her kill us as part of a test. The four of us—we’re fodder.”

“Then I’ll kill her first,” Eyevia hissed, but Votme threw out her hand and Eyevia went flying back, slamming against the wall.

“Have you forgotten how she has helped you?” Votme demanded. “How, at every turn, she has protected us? Shielded us from the worst of punishments? And yet she is the _only_ one of us who has questioned anything, who has seen that none of this is okay.” Stricken, she continued, “We were _children_. We weren’t supposed to be weapons of war—“

“I’m very disappointed,” interrupted a new voice, deep and predatory. Waxer looked towards the source and saw a creature standing there, clad head to toe in black. He didn’t know how he could’ve missed the newcomer’s arrival, but now that he was there the pressure in the hallway had increased tenfold. It crawled over Waxer’s skin, tried to force him to his knees, but he held his ground. Behind the creature stood, at attention, rows of droids, blasters aimed at them.

A sharp intake of breath came from Kenobi.

“I was hoping this trial would make you see the value in the power of the Dark side, Neavma,” the Sith said. “Yet here your competition still stands, very much alive.” They shook their head. “I let this get too far. I should have killed the younglings the moment you took them from their cages, but I was hoping your companions would do the job for me and incite in you the rage I know you possess. You always did care far too much for them.”

They tilted their head, looking right at Waxer and Kenobi. “I _will_ say I didn’t foresee outside help. But you’ve always been cunning. You would’ve made a great Sith Lord. We would have disposed of my own master and brought the galaxy to its knees together.”

“M-Master—” Luhin stammered, backing away, but the Sith brought Luhin’s throat into his hand with a mere flick of the wrist. Luhin choked, kicking out helplessly, and the Sith ignited their double-bladed ‘saber.

“Kill the Jedi and clone, Neavma,” the Sith ordered. “Or I kill your friends for their failure, and the younglings will follow.”

Waxer tensed, gripping his borrowed ‘saber tighter.

Neavma’s eyes flashed with panic. She glanced between them and Luhin, jaw tightening. Luhin’s face was turning blue, his eyes bugging out.

He heard Kenobi power down his lightsabers, leaving himself vulnerable. “What in the Hells are you doing?” Waxer exclaimed.

“I’m making it easier for her,” he replied, and retracted his helmet, letting her see his eyes, his face. With a neutral expression, he said to Neavma, “I know you will make whatever decision is necessary.” Kenobi’s tone held no doubt, only conviction and confidence. He was placing his trust in Neavma to make a choice.

To make the _right_ choice, in the series of choices, right or wrong, she had made so far.

Neavma opened her mouth, but the Sith tsked, and the choice was ripped from her. “Too long,” they said, and their blade twitched—

Another red blade diverted the Sith’s intended path and it ran along the wall, missing Luhin’s midsection and melting the durasteel. Eyevia’s lightsaber angled up and the Sith released Luhin to avoid getting their arm sliced off. Luhin dropped to his feet and scrambled back, gasping, rubbing his bruised throat. The Sith growled and adjusted their grip on their lightsaber, moving in with an undercut that hit Eyevia in the face, slicing their helmet in two. It fell from their head as Eyevia stumbled back, and instead of a monster Waxer saw a young human girl, face marred by old burn scars, long and straight across her skin.

The Sith shifted their stance and swung the other side of the blade around, aiming to slice off Eyevia’s head, but Toqgal jumped in with his own ‘saber, blocking the movement. He held the blade there and Eyevia recovered, looking no worse for wear.

“You’re all _failures_ ,” the Sith roared. “Kill them!”

The droids open fired.

Kenobi tossed Votme’s ‘saber back to her, and Waxer rolled Luhin’s to him. They retrieved their weapons with ease and laid into the attack, joining their companions in a barrage of crimson, cutting down droids as they pushed the Sith back. Neavma looked to them, her expression grateful, and with a shrill battle cry, she charged into the fray.

Ahead of him, on the front lines with the apprentices, Kenobi was a blur of bronze light, jumping and flipping, surrounded by sparks as he carved up droids and his lightsaber clashed with the Sith’s. Waxer took up his blaster again and, training kicking in with the adrenaline, he shot droid after droid. His breath came rapid and harsh, fogging up the lenses of his helmet, so with a press of the earpiece and a shoulder roll to dodge a volley of plasma, his helmet folded back into the metal band around the back of his head.

This was familiar. This, Waxer could do without thinking.

The fight didn’t last much longer. With five apprentices and a trained Jedi giving them no breathing room, the Sith was soon overwhelmed. They fell back, letting the droids shield them, but the droids were no match, and soon the Sith’s backup was gone, in pieces on the scorched floor of the facility, and a howl cut through the building.

Neavma’s lightsaber was embedded in the Sith’s chest.

She moved the blade to the right and sliced through the rest of their upper body—and in almost two pieces, the body fell to the ground.

She straightened and deactivated her weapon. The rest followed her lead. “You should go,” she said to Kenobi.

“Come with us,” Kenobi said, and Waxer could tell that Kenobi was already determined to save them too—to help them readjust to a more normal life, or to train them himself, should they ask it of him.

Eyevia looked at the body of her former master regretfully. Waxer couldn’t decipher what that regret meant. “We’re too far gone,” she said. “We will only bring pain. The Light will not take us back.”

“Nor should it,” Neavme added.

“That’s banthashit,” Waxer declared, moving to stand at Kenobi’s side.

Kenobi nodded his agreement. His eyes looked a little bright and wet—he knew something Waxer didn’t. It made Waxer nervous, and he looked from Kenobi to the group of teenagers, feeling panic tighten his chest. “Despite all you’ve been through,” Kenobi said, and his voice wavered, barely noticeable, “you didn’t let the Darkness win.”

“Yes, we did,” Luhin said, his face twisted in pain and rage as he stared at the still smoking body of his dead master. Waxer suppressed a shudder. “We let it win a long time ago.”

“Come with us. Let us help you too,” Waxer pleaded, and Neavma shook her head.

“There is nothing left for us. Nowhere for us to go if we leave,” she said, and her four companions nodded their agreement. “The other guards are coming. They are trained to kill Force users, in case of something like this. Go to the younglings. Take them far away from this planet. There is still a chance for them to find the Light once more. Still a chance for them to become good people.”

“You _have_ found the Light,” Kenobi said, sounding desperate, stepping forward and reaching out with his hand. “The absence of Darkness is not a _requirement_ for goodness. All of you are _good_.”

“If that is so,” Eyevia said, “then it is you and the clone we have to thank for it.”

“And thank you, we do,” said Toqgal, a tentative smile fluttering across his face. “Thank you for giving us freedom. For giving us choice.”

“But this is where our paths end,” Votme said, stepping forward to stand beside her twin. Toqgal smiled at her and grasped her hand. Votme gazed at Waxer, and her eyes held conviction that reminded him of his brothers, of his Jedi. They reminded him of himself. “So let us choose one last time.”

Kenobi opened his mouth, but Waxer placed a hand on his shoulder. This is what Kenobi had seen coming, then—this sacrifice that he did not want them to make. Kenobi turned to him, eyes wide and frantic, begging Waxer to help convince them, but he couldn’t, and he shook his head. Kenobi’s expression fell, contorting in despair.

Gods, he hated when Kenobi looked like he did now—like it was all his fault, like the blame was his to shoulder alone.

But Waxer understood. He understood why they felt they had to make this decision.

They had had no choice their whole lives. It had been ripped from them and their wills had been beaten into nothing.

If they could not own their lives, then they would own their deaths.

That was something the Sith could not take from them.

“Let them go,” Waxer murmured.

“I can’t—“

“It’s not your place to make this decision for them, vod. Let them go.”

It seemed as though Kenobi would argue the point further, but then his shoulders dropped, and he shut his eyes, head angled up, mouthing something Waxer couldn’t make out.

He faced the five adolescents again and bowed to them. “May the Force be with you,” Kenobi said, sounding as though he was holding back tears.

Their faces lit up, and they bowed back. “And with you, Master Jedi,” they said together, their voices melding into one.

They parted ways.

Waxer didn’t look back.

* * *

They had herded the younglings—who had been waiting for them outside, too afraid to run blindly in the dark of the night—to the top of the cliffs and away from the edge when they heard a _boom_ shatter the quiet night. Waxer turned to see pillars of flame shooting into the sky, illuminating it orange and red, climbing higher and higher, plumes of smoke chasing them up. The heat rushed upon them, buffeted his clothes and licked at his bare face. The earth shook violently, throwing some of the younglings to the ground, and they stumbled, shrill cries falling from their lips. As the shaking subsided, others moved to help them up. The ledges they had just been standing on crumbled away, tumbling into the ravine as more explosions rocked the earth.

Kenobi stood at the edge, watching the fortress go up in fire, watching the rocks crashing down into the enclave and crushing the durasteel into twisted heaps. He was illuminated, a single figure cut against the glow, and it struck Waxer then how alone Kenobi was, even with Waxer by his side.

He hadn’t been that way, before. He’d had the Jedi; he’d had General Skywalker, Commander Tano, and Commander Cody. He hadn’t looked so alone, back then.

Now he had no one. No one except Waxer.

What a shoddy replacement he must be.

Waxer waited with the younglings while Kenobi watched as the bright orange columns fade into the night until all that remained was billowing smoke and the crackling of flame. When Kenobi joined him and the younglings, his eyes were blank. “Our job here is done,” he said quietly. “No point in sticking around.”

They took the younglings to the village and the adults ushered them into their newly constructed homes to rest. Kenobi excused himself, saying he wished to call a contact about the children, and Waxer returned to Avnee and Samaan, feeling dead on his feet.

He waited for Kenobi to return before sleeping, and when he did eventually walk through the doorway, Waxer stood and hugged him. Kenobi tensed, stiff as a wooden board, before melting into Waxer’s embrace, clinging to him like a lifeline.

“I lied to them,” Kenobi mumbled into Waxer’s shoulder. “I lied.”

“About what?” Waxer asked.

“I told them they had found the Light, but they hadn’t, and I don’t know if they ever could have. Once you stray down that path, whether by your choice or not, you can never escape it. I was lying to them.” Kenobi shuddered. Waxer tightened his grip.

“But I believed it,” Kenobi continued, muffling his voice against Waxer’s clothes. “In that moment, I was convinced that what I’d told them had been true. I _had_ to believe it—for them. For their sakes.”

“What if what you told them _was_ true?”

Kenobi hesitated. “If it was,” he said slowly, “then I do not understand the Dark side as well as I thought.”

Waxer pulled away, catching Kenobi’s gaze. “Is that really a bad thing?”

“I don’t know, Waxer,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “I don’t know.”

* * *

That night, Kenobi dreamt.

Whatever he had seen, it hadn’t been kind, for his wails woke Waxer from a deep slumber. Waxer stumbled over towards Kenobi, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Kenobi was thrashing on his sleeping mat, fingers tangled in his hair as he shrunk in on himself, curling up into a ball. “No, no, no,” he was muttering, shaking his head and shivering.

“General?” Waxer said, plopping down beside him and grasping his shoulder. He shook it. “Kenobi. Wake up. You’re dreaming, sir.”

Kenobi froze, eyes snapping open, and the tension bled away slowly as he sucked in air. Waxer didn’t remove his hand until the shoulder underneath it had relaxed. In the dimmed lamplight, he could see the sweat on Kenobi’s brow, the way his eyes darted around the room, searching. He pushed himself up. “I’m sorry I woke you,” he said, voice rough. “I’m going to meditate. If you need me, I’ll be outside.”

Before Waxer could say anything, Kenobi had gone, and Waxer was alone, wondering what dream could’ve spooked the man so thoroughly.


	10. Effects and Cause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here, posted completely off schedule! The final chapter of Act 1! I have no idea how long Act 2 will take, so don't expect it anytime soon, since I'm starting up fall quarter at uni in a couple weeks.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been here from the beginning and to those who started reading later on. Y'all have been the best and I'm so thankful for all the positive feedback and the support. I <3 you.
> 
> I'd like to give a final shoutout to my two betas, [anecdotalist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anecdotalist/pseuds/anecdotalist) and [stonefreeak](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stonefreeak/pseuds/stonefreeak). You've both been amazing and I'm lucky to have had you help me with this story.
> 
> The song the act is named after:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d9opPttzDyk

Ahsoka woke with a jolt, the scent of copper lingering sharp in her nostrils, the taste faint on her tongue. She felt an acute sense of horror and surprise, but the feelings faded almost instantly as her breathing slowed.

She’d had nightmares before—who wouldn’t, after all she’d seen and been through—but nothing that left her as breathless as this. She tried to remember what it was about, but even its vaguest impressions slipped through her fingers like sand. With a huff, she rolled onto her side and buried her face into her pillow, closing her eyes. An exhale, then she let her body relax.

Sleep did not return. She could still taste metal.

She sat up with a groan and swung her legs around so they dangled off the side of her bed. She rubbed at her eyes and glanced at her chronometer.

Kriff. Four in the morning. She didn’t need to be up for training for another three hours.

She stood and stretched her arms over her head, dragging her weight up onto the tips of her toes. With a sigh she relaxed and scratched the back of her head, yawning as she exited her room. Bleary-eyed, she wandered down the hallway and into the living room. She tripped over a droid part—kriffing Anakin didn’t clean up again—and muttered a curse.

She reached the kitchen and flipped the lights on, illuminating the quaint kitchen with a yellow-white glow.

Her mouth still tasted like blood. Why did it taste like blood?

Concerned, she shoved a finger into her mouth and felt around her tongue and along her cheeks, over her teeth. Bringing it back out, she squinted at it in the light.

Her finger shined with saliva and nothing more.

“What in the Core worlds _..._ ” she mumbled, scrunching up her nose. From the cabinet she grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the sink. She frowned, then raised her cup to her lips. The water, cool and sweet, washed away the taste of blood.

Shrugging, she put her empty glass in the sink and went back to bed.

* * *

The day progressed like any other during shore leave: meditation in the morning, breakfast, classes with a break for lunch between them, then ‘saber training with Anakin in the evening before dinner. After that was free time to catch up with coursework and to hang out with her agemates—not that any of them were ever around these days, either out on the front or on other missions. It felt like it had been forever since she and Barriss had gotten to see each other.

But the day passed without incident, and she dropped into bed that night tired but satisfied with her day’s productivity. Sleep came without resistance.

Ahsoka’s eyes snapped open. She gasped for air. An impression of red obscured her vision. She blinked, then blinked again, and the red glow faded. She glanced at the chronometer: half past two. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a few shuddering breaths, and bunched her fists in her blanket.

Details escaped her, but she’d heard voices, ones she’d recognized. Someone had screamed, and there had been red—red everywhere, over everything, smeared across the ground and slick on her hands. She’d smelled burning flesh. A battle in a city, smoke rising above the skyscrapers, turning the sky black.

Ahsoka’s cheeks were wet. She didn’t know why.

“Ahsoka?”

With a start, she sat up. Anakin stood in her doorway in his night clothes, the hallway light on behind him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his concern visible on his face and rushing off him in the Force.

“Yeah,” Ahsoka breathed. “I’m fine. It was just a nightmare, that’s all.”

Anakin made to step forward, but stopped, hovering in the doorway looking lost. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, it’s fine, Skyguy,” she said. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

He didn’t look convinced. “You’re crying,” he said.

Startled, Ahsoka hurriedly wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “Yeah, I, uh. I woke up like that. But I can’t really remember what my dream was about, so I’m good now.”

Anakin pressed his lips together, looked like he might try to argue, but then nodded. “Alright. Don’t be afraid to talk to me if you need to, though. You know I’m here for you, right?”

“Of course I do, Master,” Ahsoka said. She couldn’t help the smile that appeared on her face. He could be so overbearing sometimes. “And I appreciate it. But I mean it—it’s not a big deal. I’ll be fine.”

“Do you want me to make you a warm glass of blue milk?” Anakin asked.

Ahsoka frowned. She was too old for that kind of thing.

“Obi-Wan always made one for me when I had a nightmare, even at your age,” Anakin said, a slight defensiveness to his tone. “It’d help me get back to sleep when I was little, y’know? Of course, I didn’t need it when I got older, but he still did it. It was… comforting. Even if you don’t need it, it’s still nice to have.”

She looked at her hands, still wrapped up in her sheets, fingers gripping tight. She forced her grip to loosen, felt her joints aching from holding on too long. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, actually, that sounds pretty good. Warm blue milk sounds good.”

A small smile appeared on Anakin’s face. “Come on, let’s go to the kitchen.”

She got out of bed and approached him. He put an arm around her shoulders and guided her to the living room.

Soon enough, she was laughing with Anakin over her warm glass of blue milk, listening as he regaled her with stories of solo missions gone wrong, and her dream was forgotten.

* * *

It kept happening—waking up in the night, emotionally distressed, to the same dream. Over the course of two weeks, it had not gone away. Instead, with each night she dreamt it, details revealed themselves to her as though someone was slowly wiping fog off a window to give her the full view.

So maybe it wasn’t a dream, she thought. She could talk to Anakin, but…

Well, it seemed like a bad idea. He was already stressed with the war and had been even more high-strung since Master Obi-Wan’s departure. He didn’t need to be burdened with what were most likely just bad dreams.

But she couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease. Anxiety lodged itself in her chest, made her stomach hurt and made it harder to breathe. She rarely felt hungry these days.

She frowned absently at her coursework, tapping her stylus against the side of the datapad.

It had to be the war. It was getting to her. That had to be the only reason she kept dreaming of death. Too many dead clones, too many dead Jedi. She’d had too much shore leave to think about it all. If she was out in the field, on the front, she didn’t have to think about it—she just needed to stay alive.

Dreams pass in time. That’s what Master Obi-Wan would say, if he were here. Don’t focus on them. They’ll pass.

With a sigh, Ahsoka pushed the thoughts of her dream out of her mind. She would meditate on them later, if she really needed to. For now, she had a philosophy essay to work on.

* * *

“No!” Ahsoka screamed, bolting upright. She sat frozen, fists clenched, chest heaving. Sweat soaked her nightshirt. Her heart hammered wildly, feeling as though it was going to burst through her rib cage. Tears slipped from her eyes and down her cheeks, dropping off her chin onto the blanket below, darkened dots on the fabric.

“Ahsoka!”

She jerked, scrambled away from the voice and slipped off her bed with a yelp, legs tangled in the sheets. She shook, staring wide-eyed at Anakin, who stood across from her on the other side of her bed, a hand out, reaching helplessly. His hair was in disarray, wild and standing up on end on the right side of his face. He wore a grimace.

She wiped her face with her palms, tried to stop the hiccups that escaped her lips. She couldn’t stop _crying_.

“Hey, hey,” Anakin said, voice soft. “I’m here. Can I get closer?”

She nodded. She clenched her teeth and scrubbed harder at her eyes and cheeks, willing the tears to stop, growing more frustrated when they wouldn’t. Hands gently gripped her wrists and pulled them away.

“Careful, you’re gonna hurt yourself,” Anakin said, his blue eyes filled with worry. He was kneeling next to her, wedged between the wall and her bed like she was. “C’mere.” He guided her into a hug. She fisted her fingers into the fabric of his shirt and buried her face into his shoulder, shaking. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, ran a hand down the back of her head.

“I’ve got you,” Anakin murmured, gathering her into his lap and rocking her gently. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

When her sobs finally died down, Anakin stood, still holding her in his arms. He left her bedroom and took her to the kitchen, then sat her on the countertop. He pulled a saucepan out of the cupboard and set it on the stove, then got the bottle of blue milk from the fridge and poured some in. He got two mugs out. Once the milk was simmering, he turned off the heat and poured the milk carefully into the two mugs. He grabbed both and brought them over to her, set one down on the counter next to her, and took her hands and wrapped them around the mug he held.

“Here,” he said. “This’ll help.”

She nodded shakily and managed a smile. She brought the steaming mug to her lips and inhaled the soft, sweet scent. Ahsoka took a tentative sip, testing the temperature.

The perfect level of warmth.

Anakin waited until she set the mug down to speak again.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

Ahsoka hesitated.

“Yeah,” she decided on, fixing her gaze on her hands resting in her lap. “It just… it felt so real, Master.” She paused, swallowed down the lump in her throat. She took a breath. “I saw Master Obi-Wan.”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Anakin tense.

“There was a red creature,” she continued in a hushed voice. “I think he was a Sith, because he had a lightsaber and it was red too. And there was a human with a lightsaber as black as deep space. And everything was burning. Master Plo and I were together, fighting off blaster fire. The sky was grey and glowing orange and there were buildings falling everywhere, and people were screaming, and there were so many dead…”

She paused, trying to control her spasming lungs. “Master Obi-Wan was fighting, and I don’t know how I knew it was him because I couldn’t see his face, but it _was_ him, I just _knew_. And he—he was defending someone, I couldn’t see who. I tried to call to him, but he didn’t hear me. I tried to fight my way to him, but I didn’t reach him in time.” Ahsoka choked on fresh tears. “I couldn’t save him, Master. He was right there and I couldn’t save him. I saw him fall to the man with the black ‘saber and there was nothing I could do.”

She buried her face in her hands.

Anakin didn’t say a word.

“I just,” Ahsoka continued helplessly. “I don’t know what it means. But it’s the same exact dream I’ve been having. I couldn’t remember it before, but I do now, in all its horrible detail.”

“A vision,” Anakin said quietly.

Ahsoka looked up. “Do you… do you really think it could be—?” Her voice hitched.

“I… I don’t know,” Anakin admitted. “I’m not really… _prone_ to them, but the one time I had them, they were of pain.” He paused. “I think you should talk to Master Yoda about this. Maybe… maybe he can help you figure out what it is—if it’s a vision or just a bad dream.”

“Yeah,” Ahsoka said, wiping the snot from her nose with the back of her hand. “I’ll ask him in the morning.”

“Do you think you can get back to sleep tonight?” Anakin asked.

Ahsoka nodded. “I can try.”

“Do or do not,” Anakin teased. “There is no try.”

Slipping off the counter, Ahsoka rolled her eyes. “Ha ha, very funny, Skyguy.”

Anakin put an arm around her shoulders. “You know me,” he said as they exited the kitchenette. “I’m a comedic genius.”

* * *

Master Yoda gazed at Ahsoka in silence over the pot of tea between them. A steaming cup rested in front of her on a cloth coaster on the floor. Minutes ticked by and the tea cooled. She picked up the cup and drank from it. It had a hint of spiciness and was light going down her throat.

“Hmm,” Master Yoda hummed. Ahsoka straightened up, ready to hear what he had to say.

But the old Master said nothing and simply continued to stare at her.

She wanted to fidget. She wanted to break the silence. But she had already explained everything she could.

Ahsoka wasn’t sure how much more time had passed, but eventually Master Yoda spoke again. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Stronger, your connection to the Force has become. A possible future you believe it to have shown you, hm?”

“I’m not sure,” Ahsoka said honestly. “I mean, dreams usually feel real while we’re in them. This just felt like any other dream I’ve had.”

Master Yoda nodded. “Hard to distinguish, the difference is. But had this dream more than once, you say you have.”

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Two weeks now. It’s gotten more clear with each passing night that I’ve had it. At first it only left vague impressions, but last night, everything was so clear. It was like I was watching a holofilm, but no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t look away.”

Master Yoda hummed again. “Yes, a vision it seems to be.” Ahsoka’s heart sank.

Master Obi-Wan was going to die. The Force was warning her about it. She would have to be vigilant so she could save him. She wouldn’t fail like she had in her vision. She couldn’t, for Anakin’s sake; for her _own_ sake. She would do anything to stop what she saw from happening.

“Careful you must be, Padawan Tano,” Master Yoda warned. “In trying to prevent your vision, bring it to fruition you may.” He paused. “But ignore it you must not. Possibly at play, dark forces are.”

“You mean the Sith I saw in my vision?” she asked and suppressed a shudder. If it was a Sith, what would she even do? How could she possibly help?

“Perhaps,” Master Yoda replied. “Hope it was not a Sith, I do. If it was, know what it means I do not.”

Ahsoka worried her lower lip. “I’m scared,” she confessed quietly. “I know I’m going to be there when it happens. I don’t know what I’ll do when it does.”

Master Yoda stood and hobbled over to her. He rested a clawed hand on her knee. “Natural, your fear is. But let it control you, you must not. Cloud your judgement, it will. Trust in the Force. Meditate on what it has shown you, you should.” He looked up at her, and he seemed tired and sad, but just as wise as he always had when she was a Youngling, and some of the unease she’d felt before seeing him untangled itself from her heart.

It was as close to peace as she could get right now.

“May I ask that you meditate with me, Master?” she asked.

Master Yoda smiled. “Of course, Padawan Tano. Come to your quarters later, should I? Perhaps join us your Master will,” he chuckled.

“My scheduled meditation time today is after dinner, at 1900 hours,” she said, trying not to grin too wide. Anakin wouldn’t be happy about that later. “Would that work? I’m sure my Master would be _delighted_ to join us.”

“Yes, yes, perfect it is,” he said, patting her knee. “Stop by I will. Until then, allow yourself respite from worry, Padawan Tano. Control the vision you worry about, you cannot. Do not allow it to control you.”

Master Yoda hobbled back over to his meditation mat. Ahsoka stood and bowed. “Thank you, Master Yoda,” she said. “I’ll see you after dinner.”


	11. Intermission - The Home We Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Finally, a new chapter. I know y'all have been waiting for Act 2, but you'll have to wait much longer still. Until then, I hope you enjoy this brief intermission.
> 
> Sorry it's taking me so long. Last quarter was rough. Between school, a new internship, and my dog's failing health, I didn't have time to do much. I did end up having to put my dog of almost 15 years down a few days before Christmas. So writing... been tough to find it in me.
> 
> Anyway. Thanks for waiting patiently! I hope you enjoy this very slice of life intermission. Shout out to my betas for continuing to stick with me and support this endeavor. I heart you, you're the best.
> 
> You may notice new tags. Those are Act 2 hints. ;)

“Do we still have nutrition bars up here, or do we need to grab more from the kitchen?” Kenobi asked as he scrolled through his datapad. His feet were propped up on the console and he was leaning back in the copilot’s chair, looking more relaxed than he had in weeks.

They’d had a couple of successful smuggling jobs since they’d left Eriadu three weeks before, and hopefully this upcoming one would provide them with enough credits that they wouldn’t have to work for awhile. Those holocrons still needed to be found, after all, and they had a new mission: take out Sith training facilities.

“Uh,” Waxer said, and leaned over to check under the console. He spotted the box, wedged into the corner, open. “Yeah, we’ve got some.”

“Toss me one, will you?”

Waxer pulled the box towards him and dug through it. “Any particular flavor you want?”

“No. They all taste the same to me, really.”

With a shrug, Waxer grabbed the first one his hand touched and tossed it over. Kenobi caught it without looking and opened the wrapper with his teeth.

“It seems our stunt on Eriadu is _still_ the top story on Galactic News,” he said, then took a bite of the nutrition bar, wincing. Waxer couldn’t blame him—regardless of how many they ate, the nutrition bars never tasted any better.

“In fact,” Kenobi continued, “it looks like it’s been a major topic of discussion on the HoloNet since the night it happened. Did you know someone got video footage of the explosion?”

“No surprise there,” Waxer said, logging in the coordinates Kenobi had given him. “It’s not like you’ve ever been _subtle_ , sir.”

Kenobi snorted. “You’d think they would’ve lost interest after a week. And yet a full month later, it’s still going strong,” he said instead of deigning to reply to Waxer’s jab. “So far, it seems that no one has been able to figure out who caused the explosion—at least, they haven’t publicly accused anyone. The conspiracy theorists are still having a blast. You should see the things they’re coming up with on the forums compared to their initial theories.”

“Maybe the next facility will be just as easy as the last one then, if they don’t know we’re coming,” Waxer joked.

Uttering a bark of laughter, Kenobi said, “If only we could be so lucky. I’m sure they’ll have an entire droid army waiting for us at the next one.”

“Yeah, probably,” Waxer said. “Just gives them a bigger mess to clean up though.”

With a bemused expression, Kenobi glanced up from his datapad. “Indeed.”

There was a pause. Kenobi kept scrolling through whatever he was looking at. “You frequent conspiracy theorist forums, sir?” Waxer asked, unable to help himself or his curiosity. “Didn’t realize you partook in such a weird hobby.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kenobi said, but his cheeks were tinged pink, and that was all Waxer needed to see to know he’d caught him. “I merely _peruse_ on occasion. It helps to know what nonsense is getting spread around the galaxy. Rumors, while often _completely_ misguided, can sometimes lead to a truth one might not see otherwise.”

“Do you have any accounts?” Waxer questioned. “ _Please_ tell me you post your own theories to mess with everyone else on there.”

Kenobi coughed into his fist, his face even redder. “How long will it take to reach Takodana?” he asked instead of responding, clearly trying to change the direction of the conversation—and because Waxer wasn’t cruel, he let him. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to revisit this information later to make fun of his general. He enjoyed that he even _could_ , without all the restraints of rank and propriety, and that Kenobi let him do it, seemed to even _want_ him to do it. The best part was Kenobi made fun of him right back.

It was nice. It was the kind of companionship he missed from his brothers.

Waxer bit back a laugh and leaned forward to check their navcomputer. “Er, about five days in hyperspace.”

“Remind me, why are we doing this again?” Kenobi said with a sigh.

“Because your bleeding Jedi heart made us broke, and now we have to participate in illegal business operations to pay for fuel and food,” Waxer replied, deadpan.

“It wasn’t a _serious_ question, Waxer. You didn’t have to be so honest,” Kenobi groaned, dropping his head back so it rested on the top of his chair.

“Yeah, but the look on your face was worth it,” Waxer said, grinning when Kenobi childishly stuck his tongue out at him.

It was strange how comforting it was that Kenobi could relax around him now, after so many weeks spent tensely conversing and interacting. Kenobi had been so withdrawn before, granting Waxer only the restrained warmth he’d used when he’d been leading an army. Perhaps Kenobi had loosened up a bit, or at least his consciousness was finally accepting that Waxer would have his back regardless of what happened to them. It balanced out the anxiety that seemed to be ever present in him otherwise.

And Waxer knew the man was anxious—it didn’t take a Master Jedi to figure that one out. Waxer didn’t need the Force to tell him that whatever Kenobi had dreamt about the night before they left Eriadu had disturbed him. He wondered if it had been something similar that drove Kenobi to leave the Order.

If only Kenobi would _talk_ to him about it. Waxer got the feeling talking about it wasn’t something Kenobi was inclined to do, not unless seriously pushed, and Waxer didn’t think their friendship was strong enough to withstand that kind of conversation yet. Inquiries about Kenobi’s well-being were generally met with sarcasm and sass—which were fun, but not exactly helpful. Nor did they give Waxer any insight into Kenobi’s health, physical or otherwise—not to mention that Kenobi was a blasted hypocrite who would never let Waxer get away with hiding his hurts. Waxer didn’t think Kenobi would _withhold_ important information about his health considering how dangerous it would be to do so, but Waxer could recall several occasions in which Kenobi merely hadn’t thought the damage serious. When it came to assessing his physical needs—or at least being _honest_ with himself in that regard—he had no skill whatsoever.

Truth be told, after spending so much one-on-one time with Kenobi, Waxer was starting to realize exactly _how much_ Kenobi managed to talk about himself without _actually_ talking about himself. They’d had plenty of conversations at this point and Waxer still felt like he didn’t know Kenobi at all. He could talk about the nightmares Kenobi failed to hide, or the disregard for self-care, or the crazy stunts he liked to pull, and Waxer could go on for ages about the level of his intellect and dedication and a number of other glowing qualities that he had—but the man himself? His favorite food, his preferred color, his favorite hobbies, the small things that made him smile? Waxer felt clueless, running around in circles as he tried to unravel the damn mystery that was currently his only friend in the galaxy.

No wonder Kenobi was so good at negotiating—despite how often those negotiations went about as well as trying to escape a sarlaac pit—he knew the language of politicians better than some _politicians_ knew it.

Waxer hoped it would come in handy later. But for now, there was a job to do.

“So, why’s our pick-up location Takodana?” Waxer asked. “Sorta out of the way for us, isn’t it?”

“Hm? Oh, it’s a bit of a hot spot for smugglers and pirates,” Kenobi replied, his attention fixed on his datapad once more. He seemed to be invested in whatever article he was reading on the HoloNet. Or maybe it was those forums he apparently enjoyed so much.

“Now I’m definitely not sure about us taking this job,” Waxer said. “Going to a criminal haven is begging for trouble. We already flirted with danger on Socorro. I’m not keen on tempting fate again.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to worry,” Kenobi said. “Our client wants to meet us at Maz Kanata’s castle—she’s a pirate queen, by the way—and her rules are very clear: no fighting. We’ll be safe there, so long as we don’t cause any trouble and get kicked out.”

“Well, aren’t you calm,” Waxer grumbled.

“I’m calm because there’s nothing to worry about, Waxer,” Kenobi said, laying his datapad in his lap and looking at Waxer. Their eyes met. “Maz Kanata is reliable and trustworthy, and Force sensitive as well. The Jedi Order has had plenty of contact with her and multiple agreements so that she may continue to operate her castle in safety.”

Waxer fidgeted under Kenobi’s gaze. Unable to maintain the steady eye contact, he looked away and exhaled noisily. “Alright. I’m just… worried, and I can’t understand why you aren’t.”

“I _am_ worried, Waxer,” Kenobi said. He turned off his datapad and set it aside. “However, I don’t let my worries consume me. It takes a lot of work to keep them from doing so, but meditation certainly doesn’t hurt.”

“You do meditate a lot,” Waxer admitted.

“It helps me manage my fears and anxieties. You should give it a go. You may find it helpful.”

Helpful? Waxer doubted it. He would get restless, the same way he got restless when just sitting in silence with Kenobi while he meditated. There was the unending, inexplicable urge to scratch the itch in his brain that told him to move, that sitting still was dangerous, that it would get him killed. He had to keep watch, stay alert for threats. He couldn’t do that if he was meditating. But he couldn’t say any of that to Kenobi. Instead, he said, “I’m not a Jedi, sir,” as he sent the ship into hyperspace.

“Doesn’t mean meditation won’t help.”

“Don’t you need the Force for that kind of thing?”

Kenobi scoffed. “Nonsense. Meditation is simply a way to help Jedi focus so that they may connect better with the Force. The Force itself does not directly influence one’s ability to meditate.”

“What good would it do me, then, if I’m not trying to connect to the Force?” Waxer asked.

“There are many non-Force sensitive individuals that meditate, Waxer. Meditation isn’t exclusive to Jedi. It’s meant to help clear your head. You organize your thoughts and emotions, go through and process them, and let them go. It’s a way to focus, a way to heal the mind,” Kenobi explained. “It takes practice, and lots of it. It’s why, when we were younglings, we learned to meditate with our elders—they had refined the art, and they were there to guide us through the growing pains of obtaining the self discipline to quiet our minds and master our emotions.”

Waxer stretched his arms and folded his hands behind his head. “Eh, I just don’t think it’ll be my thing, sir.”

“Come now,” Kenobi said, and he was arching his brow in that all-too-familiar way, an expression that looked significantly less dignified with scruff instead of a full beard. “You haven’t even given it a try. You never know—you might actually find it refreshing.”

“To be fair, sir, when you were my age, I highly doubt you were fighting a war. There’s a lot going on and far too much to think about. It’s not really conducive to learning how to meditate,” Waxer said.

There was something Waxer couldn’t read in Kenobi’s furtive smile. “I wouldn’t take that bet if I were you.”

Waxer stared at Kenobi. “You can’t be serious,” he deadpanned. Kenobi at war at the age of thirteen? Surely the Jedi didn’t toss _all_ their younglings into war zones as soon as they became teenagers.

Though, considering that Commander Tano turned fifteen only recently and had been fighting for over a year now—

But these were different circumstances. This was galactic war. Surely they had no reason to send a child into battle when Kenobi was young.

“I’m as serious as I always am,” Kenobi responded after a moment.

Oh, because _that_ was going to help Waxer discern a thing. Boil would’ve loved to hear all this. “You’re not gonna explain, huh?”

Kenobi shook his head.

“I’m thinking,” Waxer said, as Kenobi turned to stare out at the hyperspace vortex streaking by them, “that we should continue this conversation later.”

Kenobi hummed, though whether or not it was in agreement, Waxer couldn’t tell. Then he said, “I do mean it, though, Waxer. If you want to learn, I’ll teach you how to meditate. You don’t have to ever accept, but the offer is open to you. All you have to do is ask.”

Waxer nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

* * *

Waxer awoke to a light tapping on his door. With a groan, he pulled the scratchy blanket up to his chin and rolled over, smushing his face against the pillow. He felt too cold. His mind felt sluggish and a deep ache resided in his throat.

Tapping again. It sounded far too loud. “Waxer?” came Kenobi’s muffled voice. “Don’t tell me you’ve become accustomed to sleeping in. What will Cody say when he finds out I’ve ruined your sleep schedule?”

“Five more minutes,” Waxer mumbled into his pillowcase, hoping that five minutes would become ten, or twenty.

He heard the door slide open. “Waxer?” Kenobi said, voice clearer without the barrier of the door. “Is something wrong? This isn’t like you at all.”

Waxer looked over his shoulder and blearily squinted towards the doorway of his room. Kenobi stood in it, one hand against the frame, concern on his face. With a grunt, Waxer sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He scrubbed his face. “M’fine,” he said, massaging his throat. “Just… not great.”

Kenobi quirked a brow. “Not great?”

“Yeah,” Waxer said, swallowing thickly and wincing. Swallowing _hurt_. Swallowing had never hurt before.

Kenobi crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway. “Care to elaborate?”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Waxer replied, standing. He swayed a bit, but caught himself. “Slept bad, I guess.” He lifted his arms over his head and stretched. _Kriff,_ his muscles ached fiercely, and he hadn’t even done anything strenuous lately—other than lifting boxes of cargo for their most recent job. But that shouldn’t have hurt him at all; he’d carried heavier things in his time as a soldier. Besides, that job had been a while ago, and they were headed to Takodana for their new one. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“Alright,” Kenobi said, sounding skeptical. “There’s still proteinloaf in the conservator. I’ve made some mashed tubers to go with it. They’re just in a pot on the stove. I’ll be in the cockpit.” With that, Kenobi vanished from his doorway.

Waxer sighed and pushed his aches to the back of his mind. They’d probably go away on their own later. He just had to stop thinking about them.

He headed to the fresher and took a shower. The warm water alleviated the soreness in his muscles and he wanted to stay under the spray forever, but he knew he couldn’t waste the water supply, or they’d be taking sonic showers for the rest of their time in hyperspace. Reluctantly, he shut the water off and got out. As he toweled off, he glanced up at himself in the mirror and ran his hand over the prickly hairs emerging from his head and along his jaw. It was growing quickly, always had, and he didn’t have his waxing kit anymore, so it grew back even faster than it used to. He couldn’t find it in himself to go over his skull with the razor today—he was too tired and it seemed like too much effort and besides, it was still a while to Takodana. He’d get rid of it after they exited hyperspace. Or maybe he’d let it grow. Kenobi kept telling him he should change his appearance a bit, after all.

He threw on his comfiest clothes: loose trousers made of some soft fabric and a baggy hooded sweatshirt with pockets in the front. A reheated breakfast and lukewarm cup of caf later, he stumbled onto the bridge. Kenobi glanced over as Waxer flopped down into the pilot’s seat. “Glad to see you’ve rejoined the living. How are you feeling?”

 _Like garbage_ , Waxer thought. “Fine now,” he said.

Waxer looked at Kenobi. He looked at the blue streaks of hyperspace. He blinked, then looked back at Kenobi, furrowing his brows. “You changed your hair.”

Kenobi ducked his head and ran a hand through his new faux hawk, the fringe still swooping over to the right side. He had buzzed the sides of his head and along the back, up to the area where the hair part split off in multiple directions. “I did. I thought it would be best if I kept altering my appearance somewhat. The less I look like I used to, the harder I’ll be to find.” He scratched at the stubble along his chin. “Thought I’d regrow my beard. Not in full, though—just enough to fill out my face.”

“That look is going to be a pain to maintain,” Waxer said.

“Oh, I don’t mind. It gives me something else to do during trips through hyperspace. Besides, it’s stylish, don’t you think?” he said, waggling his brows, a lopsided grin on his lips.

Waxer snorted and rolled his eyes. “Very stylish, sir. It’s what all the kids are sporting these days.”

Kenobi laughed, leaning back in his chair. “You know me. I’m always up to date on the most popular fashion trends in the galaxy.”

They lapsed into comfortable silence. Kenobi brought his datapad out again and began to read. Aside from the hum of the ship and the occasional tap of Kenobi’s finger against the datapad screen, all was quiet. Kenobi was always reading when he wasn’t talking. Waxer wondered what he was reading about, if they were holonovels, news articles, or academic papers he downloaded before going into hyperspace. Maybe Kenobi could give Waxer a couple of recommendations; Waxer had never done much reading, but he sort of wanted to start.

He wasn’t sure what he wanted to read, though. What did beings read about anyway? What did they even _write_ about? They wrote what they knew, didn’t they? Waxer supposed if he wrote about anything, it would be about war, about burned battlefields and dead brothers and skies red with bloodshed. War was the current state of the galaxy; he supposed everyone was probably writing about war these days. But he didn’t want to _read_ about war. He already lived it. He wanted to read about good things and good people, about adventures far away where armies weren’t fighting and civilians weren’t needlessly dying. He wanted to read about people falling in love, about families that went on grand adventures, about brothers growing old together. As he thought of all the things he might like to read some day, Waxer drifted.

He wondered if Numa liked to read, if she’d started learning how to yet. She had to be around the age for it, right? Maybe he’d pick up some children’s holobooks, if he could find any, and give them to her next time he got to see her—if he ever did. Maybe he could read to her. He and Boil could voice different characters. They could compete to see who could make her laugh first. And maybe he could drag another brother in to do the narration—or Kenobi, if he was willing.

Kenobi could probably help him find some holobooks for Numa. Waxer didn’t even know where to start with that, so Kenobi would probably _have_ to help him.

A hand on his shoulder brought him out of his daze. He sat up, startled, glancing around the cockpit. Kenobi stood next to his chair, looking bemused. Nothing seemed to have changed, but Kenobi was in his workout clothes, which meant he’d left earlier and Waxer hadn’t heard him do so. “Did I—” he started, then stopped. He swallowed thickly, but his mouth was dry, and his throat was on fire. He rubbed his eyes. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Yes. You seemed to be comfortable, so I decided not to wake you. I just finished cataloging our remaining supplies.”

“Aw hell,” Waxer groaned. “How long did that take?”

“A good amount of time,” Kenobi said, crossing his arms. “I thought I might check if you wanted to do some training with me in the cargo bay, but if you’re still tired, you should go to bed. It’ll be more comfortable than sleeping in the pilot’s chair.” He sat down in the co-pilot’s chair, checking the navicomputer. “Besides, it’s not like we’ll be anywhere anytime soon. Go ahead and get some actual rest.” With a cheeky smile, he said, “I get the feeling you need it. You look _terrible_.”

With a huff of laughter, Waxer got out of the chair and headed back to his bunk.

* * *

Boil hefted Waxer to his feet and clapped him on the back, letting out a hearty laugh. “Good session, Waxer, but you’re still rusty!”

Waxer huffed and shook his head, but he felt the tug of a smile on his face. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and glanced over to the side of the sparring square where Talon watched with a gleam in his eye. Talon sat on a bench along the wall, sitting with his arms crossed over his chest. Boil beckoned him over onto the training mat where Boil had just wiped the floor with Waxer. Again.

“Don’t worry,” Talon told Waxer, handing him a bottle of water. “You’ll beat him one day.”

Waxer rolled his eyes and Boil grinned with all his teeth. “It’s not even a fair fight.”

“You’re just out of practice, Waxer,” Boil said. “That’s what happens when you’re not around for a while. A few more weeks of training and maybe you’ll finally win a match.”

“You’re just saying that so I’ll keep agreeing to spar with you,” Waxer complained, but smiled nonetheless.

Boil patted his shoulder and turned to converse with Talon. Waxer took the moment to glance at the other brothers in the room. One coming in through the door, three watching another two wrestle on a mat on the other side of the room, a couple of sparring groups in front of the mirrors. He’d missed this, being surrounded by his brothers. He’d missed laughing and training and eating with them. He couldn’t remember _why_ he missed it, but he had.

His throat felt tight. He tried to swallow down the lump. Out of nowhere, breathing became a struggle. His hand shot up to massage his neck and he frowned. He coughed into his fist but the choking feeling remained, and it grew tighter and tighter, like a vice, until he couldn’t breathe at all. He dropped to his knees, gasping. He glanced up with watering eyes and saw no one move to help him. No one seemed concerned. Boil watched him impassively from where he stood next to Talon, and Waxer clutched at his throat and pounded at his own chest as his vision began to blur, and he looked up to Boil with pleading eyes, _help me, please help me, why aren’t you helping me_ —

Oh, he realized with sudden clarity. This was a dream.

He woke with a jolt, lungs aching for breath, and he lurched onto his side to cough. He kept coughing, sucking in half-breaths only to cough again, more violently, and tears ran down his face with the force of them. He rolled over and out of bed, landing hard on his shoulder, wheezing and hacking up phlegm onto the floor, and still he couldn’t breathe. His throat felt raw and his chest burned and his muscles ached. His vision blurred and finally, blessedly, the blockage in his throat loosened and he inhaled as deeply as he could handle, breath rattling out of him when he exhaled.

He became aware of a hand on his upper back, rubbing small circles. Waxer took a shaky breath and rested his forehead on the floor. He wondered how long Kenobi had been there with him while he suffocated on his own mucus.

The hand disappeared. “You won’t die suddenly if I leave the room for a moment, will you?” Kenobi’s voice said above him.

Waxer grunted. _Kark_ , everything hurt.

“I’ll take that as a no. Hold tight. I’ll be right back.”

Waxer didn’t bother moving. The floor was nice. He could stay on the floor forever. His bed was a cruel place where his body betrayed him. The floor was cold and it felt amazing against his too warm skin. Yeah, staying on the floor sounded like a great idea. No amount of coercion would move him from this floor, he decided.

“Why are you still on the floor?” Kenobi said. Waxer turned his head to look at Kenobi, who stood in the doorway, holding a glass of something that looked a lot like swamp water.

“I’m dying,” Waxer croaked.

“No need to be so dramatic. You’re starting to sound like Anakin,” Kenobi said mildly, but his eyes were fond. “It’s just the flu. I’m not sure where you caught it, or how you managed to catch it, but it’ll pass. You’ll be fine.”

Kenobi knelt by him and poked him a few times in the side. Waxer sat up with a groan and leaned against the side of his bed, cursing his lack of resolve to stay lying on the floor. Sitting up certainly didn’t feel good. “I wish you had told me how you were feeling earlier, though,” Kenobi said. “We could’ve kept it from getting this bad. Oh well. Nothing to be done about that now.” He held out the glass of swamp water. “Here, drink this.”

“What,” Waxer said, “is _that_.”

“A disgusting concoction of blended healthy foods that will boost your immune system,” Kenobi said. “Yes, it tastes exactly how it looks. And yes, you will be drinking it.”

“Where did you find these ‘healthy foods’ you speak of?” Waxer rasped, raising a brow.

“Just because you never eat them doesn’t mean we don’t have them,” Kenobi replied, taking one of Waxer’s hands and wrapping it around the glass. “Now drink up.”

Waxer caught a whiff of the drink and gagged. Kriff, it smelled like _vomit_. Kenobi looked at him expectantly.

“Absolutely not,” Waxer said.

“Just plug your nose and chug it,” Kenobi said. “Like cheap alcohol.”

“Never pegged you as the kind that drank cheap alcohol,” Waxer teased, then grimaced as he sniffed it again.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures. You’re stalling. Come on.” Kenobi inclined his head towards the smoothie.

With a heavy, reluctant sigh, Waxer plugged his nose and took a deep breath. He tipped his head back and drank.

It was even worse on his tongue. It might’ve smelled like vomit, but it tasted like someone had mixed spoiled meat with dirt and unripe fruit. He thought his taste buds might actually be dying. He’d never be able to taste anything again after this, he was sure of it. Going down his throat, it felt like sludge. He gagged into the cup and the liquid burbled, which made him gag more. He wanted to spit it out or throw it up. The latter option was looking most likely, because there was no way something this awful could be _good_ for him, and his stomach seemed to agree.

But Kenobi was watching, so Waxer forced himself to swallow the rest of the foul smoothie down without it coming back up. It sat heavy in his stomach. When he finished, he coughed into his elbow and blinked back tears, choking on the smell of his own breath.

“ _That_ ,” Waxer said, breathless, “was the _worst_ thing,” a gasp, “I have _ever_ tasted,” another gasp, “in my _life_.”

Kenobi patted his shoulder apologetically, as though he actually felt bad for making Waxer experience death in his mouth, and relieved him of the empty glass. “Believe me, my old master made me drink worse when I got ill.”

“You’re a horrible person,” Waxer groaned. “If you ever make me drink another one of those things, I’m deserting you. I mean it. I won’t come back.”

Kenobi gave him an indulgent smile. “You should get back to bed. There’s still a ways to go before we reach Takodana.” His smile turned into a cheeky grin. “Though you may want to wash your mouth out first. I don’t think that smoothie will do much good for morning breath.”

“You’re a sick man for finding this amusing,” Waxer accused, but pulled himself to his feet and beat a hasty retreat to the refresher. Kenobi laughed, and the delighted sound followed Waxer as he closed the door. When he emerged, mouth tasting significantly better after a thorough scrubbing, Kenobi was gone.

Waxer crawled into bed and promptly passed out.

* * *

A few hours later, Waxer woke up feeling as though he’d been hit by a speeder; his entire body felt like a giant bruise. He couldn’t breathe well through his nose and his throat was dry as sand, as though he hadn’t had anything to drink for weeks.

He still felt much better than he had the last time he’d woken up. At least he wasn’t choking to death on his own fluids. He didn’t think Kenobi’s awful smoothie had much to do with that, though.

Waxer glanced to the bedside table and saw a cup of water sitting there. Kenobi’s doing, Waxer figured, picking it up and drinking gratefully from it. It didn’t take him long to finish it with how parched he was. That being done, he thought of what he should do with his wealth of spare time.

He contemplated going to the cockpit, but he felt too sick to get out of bed, and he was sure that seeing hyperspace wouldn’t help with his headache. But he wasn’t tired enough to go back to sleep. He didn’t trust his hands to be steady when cleaning his blaster, so he didn’t move to get it. Kenobi was elsewhere on the ship, so there was no one to talk to. He had nothing to entertain himself with—he’d already exhausted the short list of holodramas Kenobi had downloaded on his datapad for him a while ago, and in hyperspace he couldn’t access the HoloNet to pass the time. Lacking anything else to do, Waxer lounged.

More accurately, he stared blankly at the wall.

Thoughts of his dream crept in. He thought of how his brothers had just stood there, watching him die. They hadn’t moved a muscle—some hadn’t even turned to glance at him. Waxer couldn’t remember what Boil’s face looked like in that moment, what expression he wore. He just knew Boil hadn’t helped him.

It was what he deserved for leaving him behind, Waxer thought bitterly. He shifted onto his side and buried his face into his pillow, dragging the blankets up to his chin and curling his knees towards his chest.

He wasn’t a good man. He wasn’t a good _friend_. If he and Boil ever saw each other again and Waxer was in danger, he wouldn’t blame Boil for not moving a muscle to help him. Boil had been saving his ass this entire war, leading him to cover and pulling him out of harm’s way and bandaging his wounds on the battlefield, and how had Waxer repaid him?

By leaving.

 _Kenobi shouldn’t trust me as much as he does_ , Waxer thought. After all, what was going to stop Waxer from doing the same thing he did to Boil? If something better came along, some mission with less peril that would let Waxer disappear and erase his worries of punishment for desertion, what was to stop Waxer from jumping ship and abandoning Kenobi as well? He told himself he wasn’t afraid to die, but—

He was. He was so damn scared it shook him to his core. And he couldn’t help but feel that this quest of theirs really was a suicide mission, doomed to end in at least one of their deaths. Selfishly, he didn’t want it to be him. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to find love, to see a future with peace where he got to grow old, to explore the universe without the fear of a droid ambush right around the corner. He wanted to _live_.

But he didn't want Kenobi to die either— _couldn’t_  let him die. Kenobi was his _general_. When it came down to it, Waxer knew he’d give his life for Kenobi’s. As frightened of dying Waxer was, that wasn’t in question. It never had been.

One of them was going to die. Waxer could feel it, the damning certainty of it, like a phantom limb.

And more than anything, Waxer was terrified that it wouldn’t be him.

A knock on his door interrupted his thoughts and he sat up, surprised. “Come in,” he called.

The door opened to reveal Kenobi holding a bowl of soup, still steaming. “Thought you might be hungry,” he said. “It’s been a while since you ate anything.”

“Oh,” Waxer said. Kenobi approached him and handed him the bowl. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

Kenobi snorted and sat next to the bed on the floor, back leaning against the side. “Don’t be silly. It’s the two of us against the galaxy. That means we take care of each other. You’d do the same for me if I was in your position, after all.”

Waxer looked down at his soup. It smelled good—much nicer than Kenobi’s vile smoothie. “Yeah, I—you’re right,” Waxer responded. “Thank you, general.”

“Just Obi-Wan,” Kenobi said. After a pause, he added, “Or if you’re more comfortable calling me Kenobi, that’s fine too. No more calling me general, though. We’re equals here.”

Waxer swallowed the lump in his throat.

Equals. They were equals.

“Alright,” Waxer said. “Thank you, Kenobi.” It felt weird, saying it out loud like that. No ‘sir’s or ‘general’s. Just Kenobi.

He took a sip of the soup. It was thick with a savoury taste and left a hint of sweetness on his tongue after he swallowed it. It settled warm in his stomach, and with the warmth came a feeling of calm and comfort. He felt better as he ate more. Kenobi had a knack for knowing when he could help, it seemed. He’d been there right when Waxer needed him every time so far.

“How did you know I needed your help earlier?” Waxer asked, wondering why Kenobi had been there, rubbing his back after he’d toppled out of bed, his own body suffocating him. “I mean, you must’ve been elsewhere on the ship. How’d you know?”

“I could feel your distress in the Force,” Kenobi said, looking over his shoulder. “I had supposed it was just because you weren’t feeling well, so I didn’t monitor you too closely. But I came running once I felt that you were in pain.”

“Thank you for being there,” Waxer said. “For—for caring enough to be there. I’m just a clone, but you… you don’t treat me like one. ‘Cause, y’know, as much as they pretended my brothers and I were men, were human, civilians on Coruscant never really treated us like we were. Even the well-meaning politicians didn’t really. And the Kaminoans definitely didn’t. But you treat me like a friend.” Waxer chewed on his lower lip and set the spoon down in the now empty bowl. “I’m just a clone. I don’t know if I deserve the kindness you show me.”

Kenobi was silent. Waxer chanced a glance at him and saw a bewildered expression on Kenobi’s face. He blinked slowly. “I—” he started, tone disbelieving, then stopped. Kenobi shook his head. “Of course you do, Waxer,” he said. “Like you said on Eriadu—you were born into a life you didn’t choose, set on a path without your consent. You and your brothers were slaves from the start. And there is no rectifying that. There is nothing the Jedi, the Republic—even the _galaxy_ —can do to make that right.” He paused. He turned so that he was kneeling and placed a hand on Waxer’s wrist. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t even try. You’re all unique, every one of you. In the Force, you all feel different. Individuals in everything but appearance, deserving of the same rights as any other being regardless of your origin. You’re human. No matter the excuses, it is a failing of the Order as a whole that we have allowed you all to be treated the way you are.”

Kenobi gently squeezed his wrist. “And for what it’s worth, Waxer, you _are_ my friend. So I don’t see why I should treat you as anything less.”

Waxer blinked and found that he was crying.

And Kenobi...he just rubbed Waxer’s wrist with his thumb and let him cry.


End file.
